


Play With Fire

by king_finn



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Arson, Bank Robbery, Blood and Violence, Cock & Ball Torture, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Dry Humping, Feral Behavior, Guard!Geralt, M/M, Modern AU, Murder, Murderer!Jaskier, No Morals, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Phone Sex, Prison AU, Read at Your Own Risk, Seduction, Shameless Smut, Started as a drabble, Stealing, The Author Regrets Everything, Torture, apparently also fluff, no beta we die like the people jaskier murders in this fic, questionable morals, scratch that, went completely off the rockers afterward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 24,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24338728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/king_finn/pseuds/king_finn
Summary: Prison guard Geralt accidentally helps convicted murderer Jaskier escape, and his life collapses in on itself overnight. Still, that's only the start of the mess Geralt finds himself in, after that fateful day, and he's left wondering if he can handle the force of nature that is Jaskier.(this is quickly evolving into a bonnie and clyde type fic, so I guess that's a thing?)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 110
Kudos: 233
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Insane, Inside

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this started out as a drabble for the prompts Prison AU + "I didn't mean to turn you on", which quickly escalated to me making an entire series out of it. Titles from Play With Fire by Sam Tinnesz.
> 
> Heed the tags! This thing is full of murder, violence, questionable morals and smut. Read at your own risk.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

Geralt had expected many things when he had been hired as a prison guard. He had expected fights, he had expected insults thrown at his head, he had even expected riots.

What he hadn’t expected, was standing in the recreation room for hours on end, watching as prisoners read books, watched reality shows on the tiny tv, and _drew._ Of all things, Geralt had been most surprised about the drawing, really. It hadn’t really seemed like a thing grown men did in prison, but as it turns out, it’s as good a hobby as any.

So, he stands there, arms crossed in front of his chest, in the corner, mind wandering to the matter of what he’ll have for dinner tonight, as he keeps one eye on the prisoners, the other on the clock. It’s nearly 5, which means he has about two more hours left of his shift. 

The prisoners eat at 6, he knows, so he’ll probably either be stationed in the dining room, or he’ll have to patrol the halls to make sure no one’s doing anything potentially illegal.

He sighs a bit, as the minutes tick by, slowly but surely. His attention is caught by one of the inmates, Jaskier Pankratz, he remembers. Here because of manslaughter. Stabbed a guy in the neck with a broken bottle for insulting him. Only convicted for manslaughter and not murder, because he did not plan it for a single second, though the judge did give him an extra long sentence - deemed him emotionally unstable, apathetic, and likely to reoffend. The young man will be lucky if he gets out of here in the next thirty years.

 _Shame, really,_ Geralt thinks, as he looks at the young man drawing… well, something, Geralt’s not really sure what it’s supposed to be, as it looks like a bunch of scratchy lines in random colours, but he’s sure that if he were to ask, the inmate would give him a longwinding explanation about how it represents his situation or some shit like that. They always do when he asks.

He sighs again, shifting from foot to foot a bit to relieve the pain in his legs from standing still so long. It is a shame, that Jaskier will likely spend his remaining days here. He’s so young, quite good-looking, and clever, too. He would’ve had a bright future if he hadn’t been such a little monster. There’s a reason why Geralt reads the file of every new prisoner that arrives, and Jaskier is the perfect example: if Geralt hadn’t known about the gruesome crime the young man had commited, he would’ve let his guard down around Jaskier.

After all, he thinks, as he looks at the way the tip of Jaskier’s tongue pokes out between his lips, as he concentrates, it’s so easy to be charmed by the young man’s good looks and silver tongue, by the facade of innocence and naivety he puts up.

Geralt blinks, and suddenly he realizes that Jaskier is staring right back at him, blue eyes curious. The guard clenches his jaw when the young man shoots him a wink, and he looks away, trying and failing to stop heat from rising to his cheeks. He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be giving the prisoner any wrong ideas - whatever they may be.

He startles a bit, shaken from his thoughts, as his walkie creaks, the monotone voice of his supervisor telling him he’s on patrol duty for the rest of the shift.

He risks one last glance at Jaskier, and sees bright blue eyes looking right back. He fixes his gaze on the wall opposite him.

—

The noises from the dining room are dulled in the hallways as Geralt walks through them. Of course, there is no one else in sight, all the other guards either in the dining room or on the other side of the building, all the inmates eating dinner.

He sighs to himself. Just half an hour more, and he can go home. He just has to bear thirty minutes more of this boring nothingness. He can do this.

He stops in his tracks as he walks past the door to the recreation room. He frowns, as he sees someone on their hands and knees on the floor, searching for something under the table.

Well, really, hands and knees is a bit generous. The guy’s shoulders are practically on the floor, ass in the air almost _invitingly,_ for lack of better word, as his hand sweeps under the table.

Geralt walks into the room, rounding the man, who looks up at him. He meets brilliantly blue eyes and a cheeky grin, and, combined with the… _compromising_ position Jaskier’s in, it makes heat pool in the pit of Geralt’s stomach.

He frowns, shaking the thoughts he definitely shouldn’t be having away. “What are you doing, inmate?”

Jaskier looks back down, frowning in annoyance as he takes one last look under the table, before crawling to the bookshelf Geralt is standing next to, looking underneath it. “A pencil. A yellow one, to be precise. Rolled off the table, earlier, and I can’t find it.”

“You should be at dinner.”

Jaskier looks up again at Geralt, grinning widely, eyes sparkling. “I know. But yellow is my favourite colour, and I really want that pencil back.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “You’ll find it tomorrow, now get up.”

“Alright, alright.” Jaskier sits up on his knees, wiping the dirt off his hands. He looks to the side, right at Geralt’s crotch. “Oh,” he breathes, “I could get used to this sight.”

Geralt blinks, mind crashing and burning as he tries to process what Jaskier’s just said. “What?” he manages to choke out.

Jaskier looks up, all cheeky grin and sparkling blue eyes. “Oh, my bad.” He looks down for a second, then back up, gazing at the guard through his lashes, something changing in his face that sets Geralt’s skin on fire. “I could get used to this sight, _sir.”_

Geralt swallows thickly, heat definitely starting to pool at the bottom of his stomach, and he knows he’ll probably have to relieve himself in some quiet corner after this. “Get the hell up,” he bites out.

Jaskier pouts up at him, but does as he’s told after Geralt staring him down for several seconds. The inmate’s fingers brush against the side of the guard’s leg, as he finally gets up, blue eyes glinting with something dangerous that makes adrenaline pump through Geralt’s veins in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant.

“Oh, dear,” Jaskier mutters out, when he’s finally standing up, looking down at the obvious tent in Geralt’s trousers. “I didn’t mean to turn you on, _sir_.”

He feels anger course red-hot through his veins, along with the adrenaline and arousal, and he snarls at Jaskier, pushing the young man to the back and to the side, pressing Jaskier’s back against the wall. “I suggest you stop this right now.”

“Or what?” The young man stretches his neck out, nose brushing against Geralt’s, his breath ghosting over his lips teasingly. “You’ll punish me?”

Geralt grunts in surprise when Jaskier slings his leg around him, the inmate’s heel digging onto the muscles at the back of his thigh, pulling him closer. 

He can’t help himself, not in this position, as he plants his palm against the wall next to Jaskier’s head, taking in the way the wicked grin turns into a small gasp of pleasure when he grinds against the young man, their cocks brushing against each other through the layers of clothing. Jaskier is insufferable, and Geralt would like nothing better than to ruin this facade of cockiness and self-confidence, to reduce the young man to panting moans and whimpers as he comes undone.

Infuriatingly enough, Jaskier seems to know that, as the wicked grin returns to his face, though his pupils are blown wide, almost completely taking over the blue in his eyes. “Please, _sir,_ have mercy on me.”

And Geralt can’t stop the low rumble that escapes his chest at the way Jaskier purrs the word ‘sir’ into his ear. He noses at the young man’s neck, teeth clamping down softly on his pulse, grinding against Jaskier at the same time, earning him another shuddering moan.

The reality of what the hell he’s doing hits him when the noise from the dining room become less and less muted, the other inmates done eating dinner. He pulls back from Jaskier with a few trembling steps, taking in a shaky breath.

He points at the young man. “Don’t tell anyone,” he hisses.

The inmate chuckles, all dark eyes, sweaty, brown curls and rosy cheeks. “Wouldn’t dare.” 

Geralt can see a glimpse of a wink, before he turns around, stumbling out of the recreation room.

—

He has to pull himself off in the bathroom to get rid of the arousal coursing through his body; quick and dirty, groaning into his palm as he comes. Still, even after that, he can’t get rid of the images that keep flashing through his mind every time he blinks, can’t get rid of the wave of heat that spreads through his body at the memories.

_Rosy lips, blue eyes, blown pupils, sweaty, brown hair sticking against flushed skin, nimble, wandering hands, a silver tongue._

He pushes the thoughts away, heading to his locker when his shift finally ends. He rushes out the door without as much as a goodbye to his colleagues, slamming the car door shut behind him, driving home way too fast, well over speed limit.

Once he’s finally home, he closes the door behind him, leaning against it. He presses his palm against his forehead, feeling the heat that resides just under his skin, ready to be awoken the second he thinks about Jaskier.

He sighs, walking to the bedroom, taking off his uniform. He puts his gun in the locker next to the bed, reaching for the key badge he always wears on his belt.

He freezes when his hand finds empty air.

_Fuck._

The little shit’s stolen his badge.


	2. The Danger Gets Me High

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I've already posted three chapters on tumblr (username @queen-squish), so I'm gonna post them all at once on here as well.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

He stands there, frozen in the middle of his bedroom, hand still ghosting the place where his badge should’ve been. He’s not sure what to do - should he go back to the prison immediately and corner Jaskier, demanding his badge back? Or should he wait until the morning? Who knows what the little shit could do in the meantime, though, but if Geralt returns to the prison now, he’s sure to attract attention from the higher-ups, and he’ll have to explain the situation, certainly costing him his job.

He startles out of his thoughts when his phone rings, and something sinks in the pit of his stomach when he sees that it’s his boss. With trembling hands, he picks up, raising the phone to his ear.

“Mr. Palmer, how can I h-”

“One of the inmates has escaped.” Geralt closes his eyes, silently cursing himself as panic and horror wash over him. His boss continues: “And we know he used your badge to escape, since it’s been used _after_ you left.”

“Sir, I-”

“You have five minutes to explain yourself, Rivia.”

Geralt wipes a hand over his face, swallowing thickly. Of course he can’t just say what happened - that would surely get him arrested. After all, getting into sexual situations with inmates is highly illegal, for good reason - cause shit like this might happen. He blinks, trying to come up with a credible story, when he remembers - hazily - the few minutes before… well…

“He was looking for a pencil. A yellow one, he said. He refused to leave, so I made a compromise that if we found the pencil, he would go to the dining room. He must’ve nicked my badge when we were looking for it.”

It’s quiet for a few moments on the other end of the line, and Geralt feels his heartbeat in his throat, hard and fast. 

“Look, sir, I am so sorry,” he continues, when the silence becomes unbearable, “I know I screwed up and I take full responsibility, I-”

“Oh, rest assured, Mr. Rivia,” his boss interrupts him, voice cold, “there _will_ be consequences. Later. For now, get your ass back here. We’ve got a prisoner to catch.”

Mr. Palmer hangs up. Geralt sinks down on his bed, head in his hands, as the weight of the situation hits him. Not only is he certainly going to lose his job, and he probably won’t ever find another one after a screw-up of this magnitude, but now there’s also a murderer on the loose in the outside world, and any casualties that may come from that are his responsibility, his fault.

He curses himself for being so stupid, for being so careless. Not only did he fall for the tricks Jaskier played on him, but he also didn’t notice his badge missing until it was way too late. He sighs again, getting up, getting ready to go back to the prison and face what he’s done.

—

Four days later, the police find a dead man in a bar, stabbed in the neck with a broken beer bottle. The witnesses describe the murderer as a lean, young man, with brown hair, brilliant blue eyes, and a wicked grin.

Sure enough, they find Jaskier’s fingerprints on the neck of the bottle.

—

Two days after that, Geralt is sitting in an armchair, looking out of the window into the black night, lost in his thoughts.

Though the manhunt has been going on for six days now, they still haven’t found a trace of the prisoner - except for the dead body he left behind. No one seems to have seen him, and it’s almost like he just disappeared into thin air.

And it’s all Geralt’s fault, he knows. He’s sure to face some grave consequences the minute they capture Jaskier - _if_ they capture Jaskier.

He frowns, pulled out of his thoughts when his phone rings. The caller ID simply says ‘ _unknown number_ ’ and he blinks for a second, unsure of who it could be, before he picks up.

“Geralt Rivia,” he says.

“Good evening, _sir_.” He freezes, hands going numb, face slack, as he recognizes the voice that drawls into his ear.

“ _You,”_ he hisses. “Why are you calling me?”

“Oh, my, I thought you would be happy to hear from me.”

Geralt snarls. “Why the hell would I be happy?”

He can practically hear Jaskier shrug, before he hears a sigh on the other end of the phone. “It gets so lonely out here, you know that?” Another sigh. “I can’t stop thinking about the last time we saw each other.”

“When you stole my fucking badge and ruined my life?” He can’t keep the bite out of his voice. Rationally, he knows that if he sweet-talks Jaskier, he might get a hint about the young man’s whereabouts, but he’s too angry to take that into consideration, right now.

Jaskier sighs again, almost wistfully. “No, when you rutted against me like a wild animal. Too bad we were interrupted, I really would’ve liked to see what would’ve happened if we hadn’t been.”

Geralt closes his eyes, grinding his teeth as he tries to push away the memories of that evening, to suppress the slight arousal that stirs in him. He decides to change the subject.

“That man at the bar. Why’d you do it? Did he recognize you?”

Jaskier chuckles, low and deep. “No, he didn’t. As a matter of fact, I could’ve walked out of there and no one would’ve known that I was there that evening.”

“Then why?”

“He and his friends were talking about my wonderful little escape, and he said that the guard who’d let that happen was a moron. I couldn’t let that slide, of course.”

Geralt frowns, as the words start sinking in. “You killed him because he insulted me?”

“Why, yes,” he can practically hear the grin Jaskier must be wearing right now, “I knew you’d understand.”

“I- No, I don’t ‘ _understand’._ You _killed_ someone.”

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier sounds impatient, as if he doesn’t know what the fuss is about, “I killed someone. But I did it _for you.”_

Geralt sits there, frozen in his armchair, mind racing yet completely standing still at the same time. “Why? Why for me?”

“Because I love you.” Jaskier says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and Geralt frowns, wiping a hand over his face.

“No, you don’t. Killing for someone is not _love._ You barely even know me.”

“Don’t I?” Jaskier laughs again, softly, sincerely, voice like smooth silk against Geralt’s skin. “I know you only drink one cup of coffee in the morning because your stomach can’t handle more. I know you take said coffee with a lot of milk and three sugars, because you don’t like the bitter taste. You don’t like spice, either, you have a sensitive tongue. I know you wish you could get a dog, but the days at the prison are too long, and you don’t have the money. I know you’re senstive about the colour of your hair and eyes. I know your _favourite_ colour is blue. I know you like my eyes because of that. I know you’re attracted to me, at the very least, and maybe you love me as well, but I’m not sure of that just yet-”

“Stop it,” Geralt says, face in one hand, the other trembling as he holds the phone to his ear, elbows on his knees.

Jaskier continues, unbothered. “I know you’d fuck me into next week if you had the chance-”

“Enough!” Geralt barks, taking deep, labored breaths. “Enough,” he says again, voice weak.

“Do you believe me now?” Jaskier asks, voice soft, sincere.

“Yes,” Geralt lies. “I believe you.”

“You’re a terrible liar, love.”

“Please,” Geralt whispers, voice laced with the pain and uncertainty he feels in his chest, “please just surrender. Go to the nearest police station, give yourself up. Please.”

Jaskier chuckles again. “I don’t think I will, love. I’m enjoying the outside world too much, and I just don’t feel like being stuck in a prison for the rest of my life.”

“It’s not for the rest of your life.”

“Oh, love, we both know it is. I’ve killed two people now, soon to be three, and we both know they’re never going to let me out, if I give myself up.”

Geralt frowns, lowering his hand from his eyes. “Wait. _Soon to be three?_ ”

Jaskier sighs, almost mournfully. “I have to go now, love. Until soon.”

“Wait!” Geralt shouts, panic building in his stomach. “What do you mean, soon to be three? Jaskier!” The phone clicks, and starts beeping incessantly into Geralt’s ear. Jaskier’s hung up. 

He resists the urge to throw his phone across the room, laying it on the table next to him, putting his head in his hands. 

_Soon to be three._ The words echo around his mind. _Soon to be three._

—

Well enough, two days later, the cops find the body of Mr. Palmer, Geralt’s boss, sitting on the couch in his own living room, throat cut, eyes open and unseeing, staring ahead. 

They find a little note next to the body, Jaskier’s fingerprints all over it. ‘ _He won’t be bothering you anymore,’_ it says. One of the cops asks Geralt if he knows what it means.

Geralt lies and says that he doesn’t.

He later finds out that Mr. Palmer never told anyone that Jaskier used Geralt’s badge to escape. Though, he knows it won’t be long until someone else finds out, knows he’ll get fired and probably arrested at some point, now that there are two people dead because of his inattention.

Someone else will figure out what happened, he knows, and Geralt dreads the day Jaskier finds out who it is.


	3. Can't Help Myself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

Geralt sits at his dinner table in his otherwise dark and empty house, staring daggers into the glass of whiskey in front of him, one hand toying with the rim, the other supporting his head. 

It’s been a week since they found Mr. Palmer, murdered in his own house. The higher-ups haven’t appointed a replacement yet, and Geralt dreads the moment they do. He knows whoever gets the position will find out how Jaskier escaped, and will threaten Geralt with unemployment and possibly jail time, which will lead to Jaskier jumping to his defense - even though Geralt doesn’t want him to. Which means the new boss will get murdered. 

A simple chain of events that will lead to yet another death. And, as the days pass, Geralt grows more nervous. It’s only a matter of time before the new prison director will get appointed, only a matter of time before Geralt finds out who will die a premature and inevitable death.

He’s shaken from his thoughts when his phone rings. He knows exactly who it is, as he sees the words ‘ _unknown caller’_ flash across the screen. He sighs reluctantly, answering the phone, putting it on speaker.

“Did you get my present, love?” Jaskier’s voice rings out clear as a bell through the kitchen, and Geralt nods, before he realizes that the young man can’t see him.

“You murdered my boss. Not exactly a _present_.” He takes a sip of his whiskey, feeling the familiar burn in his throat as he swallows it.

He can practically hear Jaskier shrug. “To-may-to, to-mah-to. Either way, you don’t have to worry about him now, love.”

“Hmm.” Geralt rolls his eyes. “I can’t let you murder people under the guise of helping me.”

Jaskier sighs. “Oh, please, we both know he was going to have you arrested for letting me escape. I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty, and, like I said, no more worries now. Right, love?”

“Stop calling me that.”

“What?” He can hear the smile in the silk voice. “Love?”

“Yes.”

It’s quiet for a second, and Geralt imagines Jaskier is pouting. “But I love you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Jaskier sighs. “Oh, please. This again? I’m not having this discussion again, love.” He says it as though they’re an old, married couple, and Geralt can’t help but snort.

It’s quiet between them for a minute or so, and Geralt takes the opportunity to down the rest of his whiskey, cringing slightly when it burns all the way down. He’s considering simply hanging up when Jaskier speaks again.

“You know, I can’t stop thinking about that day.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “What day?” Half of him expects Jaskier to give him a story about how his dad left or his mum died, and that it’s the reason he’s now murdering people. The other half expects the young man to bring up that day again when they were-

“In the recreation room, just the two of us.” Jaskier sighs, wistfully. “You know, I get hard every time I think about it.”

Geralt lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Jaskier-”

“I know you do, too.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, shaking his head again, despite the fact that the young man can’t see him. “No, I don’t.”

“Love, you’re a terrible liar. I can hear it in your voice.” He sighs again, softly. “I wish you were here right now, wish I could look into your eyes as you fuck me into the mattress.” 

And Geralt knows he should hang up, should stop this before it even starts, but he can’t, he realizes, his hands tightening around the empty whiskey glass as his cock twitches in interest. “Stop it,” he mutters, half-heartedly.

“Would you like that?” Jaskier continues, as if he hasn’t heard Geralt, voice soft and hoarse, deeper than he’s ever heard before, and as much as he tries to fight it, he feels heat starting to pool in the pit of his stomach.

“Answer me, love,” Jaskier commands, “would you like to look into my eyes as you fuck me?”

“Yes.” The word is out of Geralt’s mouth before he realizes it, and he freezes, swallowing around the knot in his throat.

And, despite everything, he can’t help but relax when Jaskier chuckles, low and soft. “I know you would, love. Tell me, what would you do if I were with you right now?”

Geralt frowns at his empty glass. “Arrest you.”

“Oh, really?” Jaskier voice is dripping with amusement and something else that Geralt can’t quite place, but sets his skin on fire. “Would you cuff my hands behind my back? Bend me over a table, or push me against the wall? Search me for anything dangerous?”

Geralt realizes he’s holding his breath, and exhales - too loud, he knows Jaskier can hear it, knows the young man will realize how much his words are affecting him. But then again, he knows, that’s probably the entire point.

“You know,” Jaskier continues, softly, “a dangerous murderer like me, I could use anything as a weapon. You’d probably have to take all my clothes off, just to be safe.”

Geralt chuckles, quietly. “Sounds to me like you’re trying to write the worst porn movie ever made.”

Jaskier laughs, as well. “It does, doesn’t it?” His voice grows deeper again, though. “But we both know you can’t help but imagine it.”

And goddammit, Jaskier is right. Geralt doesn’t even try to push away the images anymore, by now - he knows it’s wasted effort, anyways. He groans in discomfort as his now hard cock strains against his jeans, and he unbottons them. _Just for comfort,_ he tells himself. He knows it’s a lie.

“Is that what you’re imagining right now?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt hears the unmistakable sound of a zipper being undone. He can’t help himself, can’t stop the images in his mind of Jaskier sitting on a bed in a dingy room in some nowhere town, his own cock in his hand. 

His breath hitches in his throat, as Jaskier continues: “Answer me, love, is that what you’re imagining right now? Me, standing against the wall, hands cuffed behind my back, legs spread? I bet you are.”

“No,” Geralt answers, before he can stop himself, and some distant part of his mind notices he’s started absentmindedly rubbing the palm of his right hand against his hard cock.

“What then, love? Talk to me.” Jaskier gasps slightly, and Geralt is a hundred percent sure he’s pleasuring himself. The thought shouldn’t send a wave of arousal through him, it really shouldn’t. But it does.

“I-” he starts, swallowing thickly. “I imagine your hands cuffed behind your back, yes, but-” Oh, god, he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be pulling his hard cock out of his pants, shouldn’t thumb at the head, catching precum with his finger, shouldn’t be gasping slightly. He shouldn’t. But he is. “I imagine you, bent over the dinner table, unable to move as my hand presses between your shoulder blades, pushing you down.”

He can hear Jaskier let out a quiet moan, and Geralt can practically see him, clutching his phone to his ear with one hand, the other around his weeping cock, head tipped back in pleasure, lean chest heaving, blue eyes half-lidded, pupils blown, lips slightly parted. He can practically taste the sweat on his pale skin, can practically feel the damp curls under his hand as he imagines pulling Jaskier’s head backward, nosing at his spine as he bends over the young man.

He can practically feel Jaskier’s hot breath against his skin as he whispers through the phone: “You like being in control, don’t you, love?”

Geralt chokes out a hum of agreement, hand tightening around his cock, stroking himself with lazy, deliberate movements.

“And after?” Jaskier whispers. “Would you let me ride you afterwards, as you sit back in one of the chairs? Would you trust me like that?”

“No,” Geralt shakes his head, still very aware that Jaskier can’t see him, even though it feels like he’s in the same room, “I would never trust you like that. But I would let you.” His pace picks up, strokes becoming more erratic, less deliberate, as he starts losing control. “I would keep your hands cuffed behind your back, and I’d put a hand around your throat, just in case.”

His eyes are closed, but he can see it, already, can see Jaskier looking down on him with half-lidded eyes, hands cuffed behind his back, Geralt’s fingers around his throat, hair sticking to his sweat-slick skin, as he rides Geralt’s cock.

His breaths come out in shuddering bursts, as he brings himself closer and closer to his climax. He tightens his hand around his cock, stilling. The pain helps, stopping him from coming too soon. He frowns at the thought. _Too soon?_ For what?

He hears Jaskier moan quietly on the other end of the phone, and he knows the young man is close too. That’s when the realization hits Geralt. 

He wants them to come at the same time. 

He doesn’t know why he wants it, doesn’t know why the thought of them coming together fills him with a certain warmth, makes fondness bloom in his chest.

Doesn’t know why he smiles, when Jaskier asks: “ _may I, love?”._ Doesn’t know why he whispers back: “ _yes, come for me, Jaskier.”_ Doesn’t know why he himself comes with a low groan, when he hears the young man moaning softly, spilling all over his fist and jeans.

His chest is heaving, sweat gathered on his brow and on the back of his neck, as he comes down from his climax. His elbow is leaning on the table, forehead on his palm, as he feels his own spend drying on his skin. Absentmindedly, he runs one finger along the underside of his softening cock, shuddering at the oversensitivity of his skin.

“Well, that was lovely,” Jaskier mumbles through the phone, some of his familiar cockiness returning to his voice. “I think it’s time for me to go now, though. It’s getting late.”

“Okay.”

“Goodnight. I love you.”

And, for some unknown reason, Geralt doesn’t feel the need to tell Jaskier that, no, he doesn’t love Geralt, this isn’t love.

He sighs. “Goodnight,” he whispers back.

Jaskier hangs up the phone, and even though he wasn’t really there, Geralt still suddenly feels alone in the dark kitchen of his empty house.


	4. Got Secrets I Can't Tell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

He sits there for a while, his own spend sticky and dry on his skin, staining the fabric of his jeans. He knows he should get up, knows he should wash it off and change into something clean, but he can’t move, frozen in his spot, head in his hands, sweat cooling on the back of his neck.

His phone is still on the table next to him, the screen black and lifeless. He half expects it to light up with another call from Jaskier, half expects the murderer to never call him again. 

He sighs, when something twists in his gut at the thought of never hearing Jaskier’s voice again.

He finally gets up, as anger courses red-hot through his veins, lighting a fire beneath his skin. He strips, throwing his dirty clothes in the laundry basket in the bathroom. He turns on the shower, turning the temperature way down, shivering as he stands under the cold water, letting it run down his back as he leans his hand against the shower wall.

It does little to douse the fire beneath his skin, does little to alleviate the anger and the last remnants of arousal in his veins, but he doesn’t turn the temperature up. He doesn’t care that his muscles will probably be cramped up in the morning from the cold.

He shouldn’t be doing this - having goddamn _phone sex_ with a murderer, shouldn’t even be answering the fucking phone, at the very least. And he definitely shouldn’t be feeling like this - _attracted_ to the man, looking forward to the next time he calls Geralt, apathetic towards the lives Jaskier could very well be taking right now.

He shouldn’t. It’s against everything he’s ever stood for, against the law, against his morals and principles.

And yet.

And yet, he can’t deny the glances he steals of his phone through the glass wall of the shower, can’t help but feel a little disappointed when the screen remains black and lifeless, can’t stop himself from imagining what Jaskier is doing right now.

Is he asleep? Is he watching television? Is he playing around on his phone, considering calling Geralt? Is he bringing himself to climax again?

Or is someone else?

And, _oh, god,_ he can’t deny the sharp jab of jealousy that carves against his insides. He shouldn’t be feeling this, shouldn’t be considering calling Jaskier back to ask what he’s doing, he shouldn’t. And yet.

He sighs again, turning the temperature of the water down as far as it can go, shivering in the cold stream that runs down his back, making his muscles contract painfully. _Good,_ he thinks, _I deserve it._

\---

He doesn’t sleep that night. He tosses and turns, sheets tangled around his legs, half his pillows on the floor. He looks up from time to time, staring at the ceiling, watching as the moonlight shifts slowly but surely, as it rises and starts to set.

He looks at his phone. So he knows what time it is, he tells himself, but he can’t help but feel slightly disappointed every time he sees no incoming calls or texts - althought he doubts that Jaskier is the kind of person to text. He’s too dramatic for that.

One or two or five times, he opens the ‘recent calls’ tab, thumb ghosting over the unknown number. Every time, without fail, he scoffs at himself, closing the app, almost slamming his phone down on his bedside table. 

He tosses and turns and watches the moonlight shift across the ceiling. He looks at his phone, he puts it down again. 2 am. 3 am. 4 am. 5 am.

His alarm rings at 6, and he turns it off within a second, wiping his hand over his face as he groans. He’s unbelievably tired, and he’s not ready for another long shift at the prison. But he has to go, now that he still has a job.

\---

As soon as he enters the building, one of his coworkers tells him they’re expecting him in the boss’s office. Whoever ‘ _they’_ are, and whoever the new boss is - if there is one - she doesn’t tell him, and his stomach sinks to his kneecaps when he catches the grave look in her eyes as she turns away from him.

He sighs, gathering himself, before walking through the long, identical hallways to the office. He knocks, swallowing thickly when a woman tells him to come in.

He enters, and he’s immediately greeted by a petite woman, standing behind the desk. Her stature may not impress, but her posture does. She clearly is used to being in charge, she knows she’s good at it, too, and is unafraid to show it. 

Next to her is a balding man, beard twitching as he smiles at Geralt.

He nods back, shaking both their hands, before taking a step back, hands folded behind his back, head raised. He knows what’s coming, can tell it from the look in their eyes, and he braces himself for it.

“Mr. Rivia,” the woman says, voice stern and authorative, her hands resting on the desk, and though she’s looking up at Geralt, she’s also looking down on him, at the same time. 

“My name is Ms. De Vries, I’m the new prison director. This here” she nods at the man next to her “is Stregobor from HR. I think we all know why you’re here.”

Geralt swallows thickly, nodding, and she turns her computer screen towards him. It shows the list of badges used, ten days ago. She points to a highlighted line, showing that Geralt’s badge was used to open the door to the emergency exit, an hour after his shift ended. 

“I don’t think I need to explain what’s going on here, anymore,” she says, grey eyes boring into Geralt’s. He shakes his head dumbly, clenching his jaw. “Go home, Rivia. Get your things in order, say goodbye to your family, explain yourself to them, whatever. I know you didn’t mean for this to happen, but two people are dead because of your inattention, so I’m giving you two days before I send the file to the police department.”

He nods, swallowing around the knot in his throat. “Thank you, ma’am.” 

“I’m going to be honest, Rivia. It’s not looking good for you. You’ll definitely get convicted for involuntary manslaughter - the evidence is irrefutable, and you’ll be lucky if you only get a few years of jail time. I just wanted to warn you about what’s coming.” She sighs. “You are dismissed.” Despite everything, she genuinely seems unhappy that she has to do this, but he knows that she has no choice - she can’t just cover for him, that wouldn’t be right.

He nods again, leaving the office, heading straight back to his car, ignoring the inquisitive looks the other guards give him as he walks out of the door.

\---

Fifteen hours and god knows how many glasses of whiskey in some dingy bar later, he stumbles into his house, kicking off his shoes. He slaps his hand against the wall, partially to hold himself up, partially to try and find the light switch.

He can’t find it, so he curses to himself, stumbling through his dark and empty home, hitting a piece of furniture and a few doorways here and there, but overall making it to his room unscathed.

Two days, the prison director gave him. Two days to get his shit in order, sell his house, what-fucking-ever. _Say goodbye to his family._ He scoffs. What’s left of his family is spread out across the globe, so he doesn’t really have to worry about them. Though, he’s not looking forward to the moment they probably see his face on tv in connection to Jaskier’s escape. 

He groans, wiping a hand over his face as he looks up to the ceiling, head swimming. Two days. One of which he just spent drinking himself half to death. So one more day left. To what? Ponder his imminent arrest? Think about the consequences of his actions?

He snorts, shaking his head slightly, squeezing his eyes shut as a wave of dizziness washes over him. _Fuck_. He’ll probably wake up with a hangover tomorrow, anyways, so that’s another half day wasted.

He sighs again, eyes drifting close as sleep pulls at his limbs. _Well at least I’ll get a decent night’s rest,_ he thinks, before falling asleep.

\---

When he wakes up, his head is, surprisingly enough, not pounding, as he had expected the night before. He does feel heavy, though, as if something’s weighing him down.

He frowns a bit, slowly opening his eyes. The fog of sleep immediately clears from his mind when he sees blue eyes above him, and realizes he feels so heavy because someone is sitting on top of him, straddling his lap, nimble hands on his chest.

“Ah, good, you’re awake,” Jaskier says, grinning down at him.


	5. I Love The Smell Of Gasoline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tender smut time? Tender smut time. (What the hell even is tender smut, really?)  
> You can still find me on tumblr @queen-squish!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

Geralt frowns, blinking up at Jaskier for a second or two until the realization sets in. “Wait, what-” 

He tries to get up, but Jaskier’s hands on his chest push him back down into the pillows. The young man leans down, lips trailing over the side of Geralt’s neck, hot breath fanning against his skin.

He swallows thickly. “How- how the hell did you get into my house?”

“Broke in.” Jaskier says it like it’s the most inane thing in the world.

“What are you even doing here?” Geralt’s breath hitches in his throat when Jaskier’s teeth scrape against his neck slightly as he smiles, his nimble hands softly running down his chest.

Jaskier sighs, wistfully, his voice low and intimate in Geralt’s ear. “After our last call, I couldn’t stay away any longer, love.”

Geralt shudders when Jaskier softly bites at his neck, his hands instinctively coming up to grasp the young man’s hips. Slowly, softly, he lets his hands trail upwards, feeling the muscle beneath the thin shirt, until he’s holding onto Jaskier’s shoulders.

He braces himself, pushing the young man backwards, sitting upright himself. He takes a fistful of brown curls in his hand, tipping Jaskier’s head backwards slightly. “You know,” he growls, “I could call the cops right now, have you arrested.”

Jaskier chuckles, low and heavy, tightening his legs around Geralt’s waist ever so slightly. “We both know you won’t, love.” His hand moves lower from where it’s been resting against Geralt’s chest, but the guard grabs his wrist, bringing the hand back up.

“Don’t,” he whispers. “Don’t do this to me.” His voice sounds pained, even in his own ears, and Jaskier frowns at him.

“Do what?” he asks, softly.

Geralt closes his eyes, bracing himself against the growing uncertainty in his chest. He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be aroused merely by Jaskier’s presence, shouldn’t be happy to see the murderer again. And yet he is, and it makes him feel like his world is crumbling apart around him, the fundaments of his life breaking down, leaving him feeling unstable, ready to fall down any moment.

“Don’t make me lose control, don’t make me betray everything I’ve ever stood for.” The grip he has on Jaskier’s hair loosens, and the young man slowly moves forward, his nose brushing Geralt’s.

“Love,” Jaskier whispers, softly, tenderly, “I would never make you do _anything._ Ever. If you don’t want me, I’ll go, I’ll disappear from your life. I promise.” It’s quiet for a few seconds, Jaskier waiting for his answer, waiting for him to tell the young man to fuck off and leave him be.

But he can’t. His breath hitches in his throat as he feels the last fundaments of his world crumbling apart, feels himself falling - _falling for Jaskier._

He opens his eyes, looking into impossibly blue ones, watching as Jaskier stretches out the fingers of the hand Geralt’s still holding, softly brushing against the guard’s lips. “You’re beautiful, do you know that?” He asks, his usually so cocky voice filled with something Geralt can’t identify as anything other than pure adoration.

Gently, he pulls Jaskier’s hand closer by his wrist, softly turning it, kissing the palm. Jaskier sighs, laying his fingers against Geralt’s cheek as they look in each other’s eyes, softly stroking his skin. 

And Geralt loses himself in the gentle touches and brilliantly blue eyes, in the soft line of Jaskier’s jaw, in the high cheekbones, in the brown curls. Loses himself in the way Jaskier softly strokes his skin, in the lack of judgement in his face, in the warmth that spreads through his chest when he only sees love in those blue eyes.

His last bit of self-control crumbles to ashes when Jaskier whispers “ _I love you”_ to him. He leans forward, their lips connecting, feather-light at first, before Jaskier leans in, deepening the kiss. 

It’s like a dam has broken inside him, spilling out all the things that he’s been holding back, all the feelings he’s been pushing away, and he feels tears stinging in his eyes at the intensity of it all, of this one kiss. 

Jaskier pulls back, blue eyes wide and concerned and adoring as he softly wipes the wetness on Geralt’s cheeks away. “Hey,” he whispers, “hey, it’s alright, love, everything will be alright.”

Gently, Jaskier pushes him back down into the pillow, kissing along the line of his jaw. “Let me take care of you, love.”

And Geralt lets him. Lets Jaskier press soft kisses down his throat, lets him lift up the hem of his shirt, sits upright a bit to let him take it off, before letting Jaskier push him back down onto the bed.

Lets him press a trail of kisses down his chest, lets him linger on the scars he got from working at his dad’s farm all those summers as a teen, lets him hook his fingers under the hem of the jeans from last night he’s still wearing.

Lets Jaskier pull them off gently, lets him kiss his way down the inside of his leg, lets him do the same with his underwear.

Lets Jaskier look into his eyes as he takes Geralt’s half-hard cock into his hand, pressing a kiss to the head. Lets him lick a wet stripe from the base to the tip, along the underside. Lets him catch the first drops of precome with his thumb, spreading it across the skin of his now-hard cock.

He pushes himself up onto his elbows, carding one hand through Jaskier’s soft hair as the young man completely takes him into his mouth. He groans slightly at the heat of Jaskier’s mouth, at the velvety softness of his tongue. “God, you feel so good.”

Jaskier smiles up at him, bobbing his head, sucking Geralt’s cock with slow, deliberate moves, one hand around the base, stroking the parts his mouth can’t reach, the other rubbing circles into the skin of Geralt’s hip.

And it’s all too much, the sensations coming at him all at once - the feeling of Jaskier’s soft hair in his fingers, the feeling of the hand rubbing soft circles into his hip, the feeling of the velvety warmth around his cock, of Jaskier’s breath against his abdomen as he moves down again, the feeling of those brilliantly blue eyes on his, the feeling of being taken care of - _of being cared for._

He unconsciously bucks his hips up slightly, freezing when Jaskier gags as Geralt’s cock hits the back of his throat. “I’m so sorry,” he says, as the young man pulls off his cock with an obscenely wet sound.

Jaskier merely looks at him, pupils blown, his thumb absentmindedly stroking the base of Geralt’s prick. “Do it again,” he whispers, before taking Geralt in his mouth again.

He blinks once, twice, but obliges as Jaskier looks up at him expectantly. He cards his fingers through the brown curls again, pushing Jaskier’s head down as he moves his hips up at the same time.

Jaskier gags again, but hums in approval immediately afterwards, sending sparks of pleasure up Geralt’s spine. He tips his head back, staring at the ceiling, frowning when Jaskier pulls off him again.

“Look at me love.” Geralt blinks, but looks down again, into Jaskier’s blue eyes. “I want to see your face when you come in my mouth.”

And, by god, Geralt has to put all his focus into not coming right there and then, but somehow, he manages, giving Jaskier a curt nod.

The young man smiles at him, taking him in his mouth again, sucking him off with languid and deliberate movements, humming around Geralt’s cock every time it hits the back of his throat.

It’s not long before Geralt is on the edge of climax, hand tightening in the brown curls. “Jaskier-” he chokes out, and the corners of the young man’s lips curl into a smile, taking Geralt’s cock in his mouth completely, his nose hitting his abdomen.

Geralt groans as he comes, his fingers tightening in Jaskier’s hair, looking into blue eyes as the young man swallows around him.

When he’s finally past his climax, Jaskier pulls off him with a slick _pop._ Geralt smiles, taking the young man’s chin in his hand, sitting up completely as he pulls Jaskier towards him.

When they’re finally close enough, he leans forward, kissing him. The young man smiles at him, all brilliant blue eyes and a cheeky smile as Geralt whispers: “thank you.”

Jaskier kisses him again, softly this time. “Anything for you,” he whispers back. He waits a few seconds, looking into Geralt’s eyes, smiling at him. “I love you. You know that, right?”

Geralt smiles back, and despite his earlier disbelief and reservations, despite everything that’s happened since they met, despite the murders, despite Geralt’s imminent arrest, he feels perfectly happy, sitting here on his bed, Jaskier in his lap, slender arms around his neck, their noses brushing. 

“I know.”


	6. I Light The Match To Taste The Heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier be like *mood swing* *mood swing* *mood swing* *mood sw-  
> I was gonna give a warning for smut ahead but I think by now y'all know what you signed up for.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!
> 
> Edit 2: Used to contain dubcon elements, but I changed this chapter to include explicit consent, since I was not comfortable with what I'd first written, in hindsight.

“Well,” Geralt mutters, burying his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, “I’m going to miss you.”

He feels nimble fingers carding through his hair, tucking it behind his ears. “What do you mean, love?”

Geralt scoffs, pulling back a bit, looking into impossibly blue eyes. “They know you used my badge to escape, and well, you killed two people, so they’re gonna charge me with involuntary manslaughter. They’re handing the file to the cops tomorrow.”

Jaskier frowns at him, hands tightening on his shoulders, something dangerous taking over in those blue eyes, his jaw clenching. “Who’s _they?”_

Geralt shakes his head, kissing Jaskier softly. “Don’t worry about it. It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not.” Jaskier’s voice is cold, sharp as steel, and Geralt knows he should be scared, reasonably, but he can’t bring himself to be.

“It is.” He shuts the young man up by putting a hand over his mouth, and Jaskier frowns at him. “It is. I don’t care. I made a mistake and I need to be punished for that. I really don’t care, as long as you’re safe.”

He doesn’t know where this is coming from, doesn’t know why he doesn’t give a shit about his own life, doesn’t know why he’ll willingly trade his freedom to ensure Jaskier’s. He doesn’t know, but he doesn’t care, either.

“And maybe you should stop killing people, that’d also be nice,” he adds, for good measure.

“Oh, love,” Jaskier says, pushing Geralt’s hand away, some of the familiar snark returning to his voice, “we both know that’s not going to happen.” He leans forward, brushing his lips against Geralt’s. “Just tell me their names and I’ll take care of them for you.”

Geralt sighs, leaning backwards, away from Jaskier. “You can’t just kill everyone who gets in my way, dear. It’ll be suspicious and it’s just gonna land me in more trouble when the next person finds out.”

Jaskier grins at him, hands lightly tugging at the small hairs at the nape of the guard’s neck. “You called me ‘dear’.”

Geralt freezes for a second, as he realizes that he did indeed just call Jaskier ‘dear’. He shrugs, hands tightening around the younger man’s waist. “You don’t like it?”

Jaskier laughs, leaning forward, kissing him deeply. “I love it.” He looks at Geralt sternly. “Still, I’m gonna need their names.”

Geralt smiles, kissing the tip of the young man’s nose. “And I’m not gonna tell you.”

“Youll end up in jail if you don’t.”

“I’ll probably end up in jail anyways if I do.” He sighs. “Why are you so opposed to me being punished for my crimes?”

Jaskier frowns at him. “Because you didn’t do anything _wrong._ And besides,” he pouts, “I’ll miss you.”

Geralt smiles again. “We both know I did plenty wrong. I let you seduce me.” He leans forward, their noses brushes, smiling lazily. “Twice.”

“Thrice, if you count that time on the phone.”

“You’re just proving my point more. And don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find someone else soon enough.”

Jaskier frowns, pulling back, hands on Geralt’s shoulder, blue eyes searching his face. “Do you think I’d really move on so quickly? Do you really think so lowly of me?” 

Geralt blinks. “I- I just thought-”

“What? That I didn’t mean it all those times I told you I love you?”

“No, I- I just-” he sighs, not sure what to say. “That’s not what I meant, dear.” He buries his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck again. “I’m just saying that you shouldn’t wait for me to get out of prison. I’m not worth that.”

He hears Jaskier sigh. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“ _Dear_. I like it when you call me that. Do it again.”

Geralt chuckles, sucking a small hickey into Jaskier’s neck. “Anything for you, dear.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

The hand that’s been stroking through his hair stills, tightening into a fist, Jaskier’s voice growing cold. “Then tell me their names.”

He clenches his jaw, not letting Jaskier pull his head back. “No.”

Jaskier growls wordlessly, pushing Geralt back into the pillows, keeping his hand tightened in the silver hair. _“Tell me their names.”_ His blue eyes are cold, spitting shards of ice into Geralt’s skin. 

“No,” Geralt repeats, not budging a bit. 

Jaskier snarls at him, strong, nimble fingers gripping his throat right underneath his jaw, tipping his head backwards. Geralt growls back, hands coming up to grasp at Jaskier’s forearms.

The young man bends forward, bringing his face close to Geralt’s, blue eyes shooting fire, features contorted in rage. “I’m _not_ gonna let you go to jail, you hear me?” he hisses at Geralt. _“Tell. Me. Their. Names.”_

“No,” Geralt spits back. “I _am_ going to jail, I _am_ going to be punished for my crimes. Try and fucking stop me.”

Suddenly, Jaskier lets go of his throat, sitting back on his haunches, face relaxed and slightly amused. Geralt doesn’t know where the sudden change came from, but it does scare him. Just a little. 

“Oh?” Jaskier asks, voice suddenly light and innocent, a drastic contrast with the rage he seemed to exude mere seconds ago. “So you want to be punished for your crimes?”

Geralt narrows his eyes at him. “Yes, that’s what I just said.”

Jaskier smirks down at him, one hand softly taking Geralt’s wrist. “Alright, fine. Have it your way.”

Geralt frowns. “What-”

Before his mind can process it, Jaskier’s taken something from the nightstand, pushing Geralt’s wrist up. Something cold touches his skin, and before he can resist, Jaskier’s already taken his other arm, pushing it up as well, closing the handcuffs around his wrist.

The little shit’s chained him to the bedframe.

“Jaskier,” he growls out through clenched teeth, tugging at the handcuffs, “get these off me right the fuck now.”

The young man laughs, bending forward, pressing a few small kisses under the line of his jaw. “You said you wanted to be punished. So here I am, punishing you.”

Geralt frowns as Jaskier moves off him, standing next to the bed, taking his shirt off, revealing lean muscle and a surprising amount of hair. “This isn’t exactly a punishment. At least not enough.”

“Oh, really?” Jaskier asks innocently, pushing his jeans and underwear off in one movement, kicking them off, and Geralt has to fight not to stare. “It’s okay, love, you can look,” he says innocently, as he straddles Geralt’s lap again. “Back to what I was saying,” Jaskier continues, bending to the side, opening the top drawer of the nightstand, “I’m sure this is plenty of punishment. After all, I know how much you hate not being in control.”

And Geralt does have to admit, he’s itching to be free of his bonds, to be able to be in charge of the situation. Jaskier smiles at him knowingly. “And trust me, love, I’ll make sure it feels like punishment enough, once I’m done.”

The words and the growl in Jaskier’s voice sends shivers down Geralt’s spine. Finally, the young man finds what he’s looking for, slamming the drawer shut. “Ah, there it is,” he mumbles.

Geralt frowns down at the bottle of lube that’s tossed onto his stomach. “How did you know-” the question sticks to his tongue as a realization dawns on him. He lets out a long-suffering sigh. “You went through my shit while I was asleep, didn’t you?”

Jaskier shrugs, his fingers trailing lightly over the muscles of his stomach. “I got bored. Not my fault you’re such a heavy sleeper.” He leans forward, kissing Geralt softly. “Last chance. Tell me their names.”

Geralt clenches his jaw again. “No.”

Jaskier sighs, taking the bottle of lube. “Then you leave me no choice, love. Tell me, have you ever fucked a man before?”

Geralt frowns, but nods. “A few times, yes.”

“And tell me, love,” Jaskier leans forward again and Geralt hears the unmistakable sound of the bottle of lube being opened, smells a hint of pineapple as Jaskier pours some in his hand, “have you ever been fucked by a man before?”

Geralt freezes, then blinks. “No,” he whispers, and Jaskier grins widely.

“Well,” he whispers against the skin of Geralt’s jaw, his slick fingers reaching down, softly caressing Geralt’s balls, “I’m honoured to be your first.” He pauses for a second, the determination in his blue eyes subduing a bit. “Unless you don’t want to, of course.”

Geralt hesitates, thinking for half a second. Of course, he’s a bit nervous, but those few times he’s been with a man had always left him a bit curious, as to what it felt like to be filled, stretched open and fucked - though he’s never trusted someone enough to ask them to do it to him.

And, strangely enough, he trusts Jaskier.

“I want to,” he says, and the cockiness returns to Jaskier’s eyes, as Geralt plants a chaste kiss to his lips.

He gasps, arching his back off the bed a bit as Jaskier’s fingers slip inside the cleft of his ass, circling his rim. 

“Hmm.” Jaskier leans back a bit, blue eyes studying his face, as he softly pushes the tip of one finger into Geralt. “This is going to be so much fun.”


	7. I've Always Liked To Play With Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, y'all have come to expect smut, so I'm not gonna warn y'all for that, of course. But I guess a warning for orgasm denial and dirty talk? Not sure if that needs a warning but here's one anyways.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

He struggles against his bonds, the metal grating against the wood softly, as Jaskier pushes his finger in further. He groans, clenching around the unfamiliar feeling.

Jaskier shushes him softly, pressing kisses along his jaw. “Relax, love, just relax. It’ll feel better if you’re not so tense.”

Geralt does as he’s told, melting into the mattress, shuddering in quiet pleasure as Jaskier whispers “ _good boy”_ to him. The finger sinks in deeper and the initial burn turns into a distinct sort of pleasure, something he’s never felt before.

“Hmm, hold on, love.” Jaskier mutters, softly lifting up one of Geralt’s legs, slinging it over his shoulder, pushing the other to the side with his knee. “There, better isn’t it?”

Geralt can only choke out a hum in agreement before Jaskier pulls his finger partially out, adding another when he pushes back in. And although it feels so wrong to be bound, not in control of what’s going to happen, Geralt can’t help but relax further into the pillows, hips bucking slightly as Jaskier’s fingers push into him.

He groans wordlessly as the young man curls his fingers, hitting a sensitive spot inside Geralt, sending sparks of pleasure up his spine, back arching off the bed a bit.

“Feel good, love?” Jaskier asks, grinning at Geralt from between his legs. “You like it when I do this?” He pushes against Geralt’s prostrate again, massaging it a bit.

“ _Fuck,”_ he bites out through gritted teeth, bound hands tightening around the bedframe.

“Answer me, love,” Jaskier commands, wicked grin around his lips, confidence in his voice, the fingers of his other hand curling around Geralt’s hard cock. “Does that feel good?”

Geralt gasps, choking back a moan at the unbridled pleasure that sparks through his veins. “Y- yes,” he manages to whisper out, glaring at Jaskier as the young man looks at him expectantly, fingers stilling. “It feels fucking amazing so don’t you dare stop-”

He gasps when Jaskier moves again, pulling in and out of Geralt expertly. “Was that so hard, love?” He plants open-mouthed kisses on the inside of the leg that’s slung over his shoulder. “You want to come, love?”

Geralt tips his head back, chest heaving with every ragged breath he takes in. He nods frantically, eyes squeezed shut, as Jaskier pushes in one last time, his fingers brushing against Geralt’s prostate before he pulls out completely.

Geralt’s eyes snap open as his budding climax dies down in his veins. He looks back down, glaring at the satisfied smirk on Jaskier’s face. “What the f-”

“Tell me their names.”

Geralt blinks, the fog slowly clearing from his mind. “What?”

“Tell me the names of the people who are trying to send you to prison, and I’ll let you come.” 

Geralt snarls at the young man, tugging at his bonds. “No. I won’t let you kill them.”

Jaskier sighs, disappointed. “That’s unfortunate, love.”

“Why the hell is th-” his voice catches in his throat as Jaskier pushes back in, three fingers this time, his other hand moving around his cock in quick, short movements.

Geralt sees stars when the fingers in him spread a bit, the slight burn only adding to the pleasure. He knows what’s coming, knows what’s going to happen, but between his hands being bound to the bedframe and the pleasure rendering him docile and pliant in Jaskier’s skilled hands, he’s powerless to stop it.

“Please,” he gasps, back arching off the bed, hips bucking slightly, orgasm approaching fast, “ _please_.”

Jaskier laughs softly, hand pulling out of him again, instead pushing down on Geralt’s abdomen, holding him down as his hips move in desperate motions, trying to search out his quickly dwindling climax.

“ _Please,”_ he breathes out.

“Their names, love.”

“Never.”

Jaskier sighs again, shaking his head slightly as he smiles. “Oh, love, I could keep going all day and all night until you’re a begging, panting mess underneath me. You can’t keep this up much longer.”

Geralt grits his teeth, chest heaving, still. “I can. I will.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier pouts, frowning as he thinks, placing a light kiss on the inside of Geralt’s knee. “Looks like we’re at an impasse.” He shrugs, wicked glint returning to his eyes as he bends forward, the muscles at the back of Geralt’s leg straining a bit as his knee is pushed against his shoulder.

Jaskier brushes his lips against Geralt’s, smiling widely. “Oh well. At least I can still have some fun with you.”

Geralt gasps slightly as he feels the blunt head of Jaskier’s cock pressing against his rim, shudders as Jaskier softly takes his earlobe between his teeth for a split second.

His voice is suddenly soft, sincere. “If you want me to stop, say... say cactus. Alright, love?”

He nods, and he feels Jaskier smile against the soft spot under his ear, his tone regaining its familiar cockiness.

“You think three fingers was enough preparation, love?” He can practically hear the smirk in Jaskier’s voice. “Of course it was, silly me. I bet you’ve been eager to be fucked the moment I laid my hands on you, bet you wanted my cock in your arse the second you saw me.”

Geralt groans wordlessly, hips bucking slightly to search out friction.

“Tell me, love. Tell me how much you want to be fucked, how much you want me to come in you.”

He gasps as he feels Jaskier push in slightly, struggles against his bonds, desperate to be able to feel warm skin under his fingers, to be able to rake his nails down that perfect back. “ _Please.”_

_“Tell me, love.”_

_“Fuck-_ I need it, I need you so badly, please just fuck me, you little sh-”

He moans breathlessly, head tipping back in pleasure as Jaskier pushes in, bottoming out in one swift movement of his hips.

“Hmm,” Jaskier hums against his skin, laughing softly at the undignified whimper Geralt lets out as the young man shifts his hips a bit. “Desperate little slut for me, aren’t you, love? You feel so good, better than I ever imagined.”

He pulls out a bit, slamming back in, and Geralt whimpers at the pleasure that sparks up his spine, sets his skin on fire, as Jaskier’s cock hits his prostate, as the young man’s stomach brushes against his leaking prick, trapped between them.

Jaskier groans, slamming in and out of Geralt at an unrelenting pace. “ _Fuck-_ you feel so good, love, you’re so tight for me.”

Geralt moans wordlessly, as every snap of Jaskier’s hips hits him at just the right angle. He’s never done this before - never _felt_ like this before: raw, open, exposed, _filled,_ aching for more, the sparks of pleasure almost tangible on his skin as he’s fucked into the mattress.

“ _Please,”_ he begs, desperate for release. 

Jaskier gasps in his ear, the rhythm of his hips faltering a bit, growing sloppier as he climbs towards his own climax. “ _Their names, love.”_

_“Fuck-_ ” He can’t do this anymore, can’t keep coming so tantalizingly close to orgasm, only to be let down over and over again. He can’t stop the blind desperation he feels for release, can’t stop himself from blurting out the names that have been clinging to his tongue ever since Jaskier first asked for them. “Fine! De Vries and Stregobor- _fuck,_ just please, please let me come, goddammit-”

“Good boy.” He shudders at the praise Jaskier whispers into his ear. “Come for me, love.”

He cries out in pleasure as Jaskier’s hand wraps around his leaking prick, his hips snapping into Geralt’s one last time. He’s floating and falling at the same time, white-hot lightning bolts of pleasure shooting up his spine as his own come paints white stripes across his stomach. A distant part of his mind registers Jaskier groaning into his ear, feels warmth fill him as the younger man comes.

They lay there for a while in the aftershocks of their orgasm, chests heaving, skin slick with sweat and come, drying in the cool air. 

Finally, after a few minutes, Jaskier pulls out of him, Geralt groaning a bit at the overstimulation, at the unfamiliar feeling of come rushing out of him, onto the bed sheets. Jaskier sighs wistfully, pecking a small kiss to his lips, smiling down on him, before abruptly getting up.

Geralt frowns. “What-”

“Don’t worry, love,” Jaskier muses, as he picks Geralt’s shirt from the ground, wiping the come off himself, before wiping it off Geralt’s stomach, “I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

He kisses Geralt one last time, before picking his clothes off the floor, pulling them on. 

“Jaskier, what are you doing?”

“No time to waste,” the younger man mutters, “after all, I have to get to them before they file the report.”

Realization dawns on Geralt, and ice-cold shock runs through his veins, quickly being replaced by panic and anger, as he tugs at the handcuffs still holding him in place. “Jaskier, I swear to god, don’t kill them-”

Jaskier sighs, then smiles, walking to the door, turning around at the last second. “Love, I have no choice. I’ll be back soon.”

He turns back around, closing the door behind him. 


	8. I Ride The Edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this one! Except like,,, murder discussion, I guess?
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

Geralt grits his teeth together, tugging at the handcuffs experimentally again as he hears Jaskier rummaging around in the kitchen. He quietly blesses past Geralt for being broke and not being able to afford a new, sturdy bedframe, for having to buy a secondhand rickety one, as he sees the wood by the side budge a bit, the screws worn down with time and use.

He braces himself, heels digging in the mattress as he closes his hands around the chains, pulling as hard as possible. The old wood creaks, before completely splintering. He closes his eyes, turning away from the shards before they can hurt him. 

When he’s sure that he’s not about to be blinded by the cheapest goddamn bedframe he could get his hands on 10 years ago, he opens his eyes again, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Hands still bound together, he opens the drawer of the nightstand, rummaging through the mess inside, while he half listens if Jaskier’s still inside the house or not.

Finally, he finds the key, nearly dropping it before he can manoever his hands just right to slip it into the lock. With an awkward, twisting move of his fingers, he manages to open the handcuffs, letting them drop to the floor. 

It’s eerily quiet in the house, now, and he has half a mind to put on his pants before leaving the bedroom, in case he has to chase Jaskier down the street to stop him.

He sighs, relieved, when he finds Jaskier in the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards and drawers. “Don’t do it,” he says, and the young man turns to him, surprised.

“How the hell did you-” he waves his hand dismissively, turning back around to the cutlery drawer. “Whatever. Love, do you really not have _any_ proper knives? Ones that aren’t tiny or blunt as shit, perhaps? You know you’re supposed to sharpen them, right?”

Geralt sighs, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Well, now I’m glad I never did. You can’t kill them, Jaskier.”

The young man scoffs, slamming the drawer shut. “Whatever happened to ‘dear’? You sound so formal.”

“And you sound so murderous.”

Jaskier turns around, eyes like the arctic ocean. “Well, that’s because I am.” He raises his hand, cutting off Geralt’s rebuttal. “Yes, I’m going to kill them. You can’t stop me.”

Geralt sighs again, taking a few steps forwards, resting his hands on the dinner table between them. “Why?” This time, he’s the one to interrupt the other man before he can start talking. “Yes, I know you love me, but that’s not reason enough, not for me. Because if you kill them, you’ll only incriminate both of us even more.”

Jaskier smiles, walking forward as well, until he’s standing on the other side of the table. “Only if they catch us.”

Geralt blinks, trying to process the words and the weight they hold. “You mean-”

“Yes,” Jaskier says, grinning from ear to ear as he reaches forward across the table, taking Geralt’s hand in his. “Come on, love. We could head to the coast together. Get away for a while.”

And although the proposal does sound nice, he can’t help but wonder if he and Jaskier have two very different ideas about what ‘getting away for a while’ entails. Jaskier’s probably involves a lot more murder and a lot less breakfast in bed. 

_Why not both, though?_ A stray part of his mind wonders, and he frowns for a split second. 

“We could go now,” Geralt says, instead. “We don’t have to kill them before we leave.”

And if Jaskier notices the way he used ‘we’, he doesn’t mention it, though the way he had said it so absentmindedly bounces around Geralt’s head a few times, as he wonders since when he’s started to consider comitting murder together even remotely a possibility.

“We do, love,” Jaskier says, thumb stroking over the back of Geralt’s hand softly. “We do. They’re never gonna stop hunting us if we don’t.”

“If we kill them, other people will start hunting us.”

“You don’t know that.”

“It’s only a matter of time.”

“ _You don’t know that.”_ Jaskier’s grip on his hand tightens, light blue eyes determined and desperate, and suddenly some distant part of Geralt whispers to him that maybe he isn’t the hopeless romantic of the two of them. Maybe Jaskier is.

Maybe Jaskier just has a completely different idea of romance. Maybe his version includes love so passionate and blinding you’d kill for the other person. Maybe it includes protecting the ones you love with a fierceness that most people would cower for. Maybe it’s not as much about being soft towards the other person but about being the shield to protect them from the outside world - and, if need be, the blade that pushes those who wish to harm the one you love away.

Or maybe Jaskier just wants an excuse to kill two people.

Though, as they stand there together in the kitchen, hand in hand, as he looks into those ocean eyes and only sees determination and a passion so deep it almost sends him reeling - he very much doubts that Jaskier is just looking for an excuse.

And it should scare him away. It should be like crossing a line that shouldn’t be crossed, but it doesn’t feel like that to him.

Because, as much as Jaskier is a force of nature to be reckoned with, as much as his mood swings give Geralt an emotional whiplash, as much as the young man has blood on his hands, as much as every part of him should be screaming that this is wrong and bad and horrible and whatnot, as much as he feels like he’s walking on a tightrope sometimes when he’s dealing with Jaskier - he doesn’t want to let go.

He doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t want to move away, doesn’t want Jaskier to go without him.

Because being with Jaskier makes him feel safe, makes him feel something he hasn’t felt since he was still living with his family.

_A sense of home,_ he realizes now. 

And he doesn’t want this feeling to leave, doesn’t want to feel that familiar emptiness in his chest that he’s gotten used to over the years. 

Just because it’s familiar, doesn’t mean it’s good - he knows now - and just because Jaskier’s love is unfamiliar, doesn’t mean it’s bad.

And maybe he feels a little resentment in his chest for being blamed for the deaths of two people just because he didn’t pay attention for a few hours. And maybe he’s a little spiteful about constantly being bossed around and belittled by his higher-ups. And maybe he’s had enough of this unfullfilling life. And maybe he just wants to tear it all down, burn it to the ground before finding happiness someplace else.

And maybe he’s angry and tired and longing for something else, for a way to live life without having to follow other people’s rules. And maybe he feels happy when he’s with Jaskier, happier than he’s felt in a very long while.

And maybe he looks into those ocean eyes, and smiles at Jaskier, and maybe the young man gives him a knowing smile back.

And maybe he's had enough of this life. And maybe he’s not opposed to building up a new one, or not building one up at all, but always moving about, finding their home in each other’s arms. And maybe he’s always felt like he would end up rejecting all the things taught to him by the rest of the world and would find his own set of rules to live by. And maybe he’s ready to leave this all behind, right here, right now, without thinking about the future too long, without clinging to the past.

And maybe he knows where to find De Vries and Stregobor.

And maybe he has some cash stored away under his bed that might come in handy when one doesn’t want to be tracked.

And maybe he has a gun and a set of very sharp knives, hidden away at the back of a cupboard in the kitchen somewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also you can find me on tumblr, @queen-squish!


	9. My Speed Goes In The Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings! Just general bastardous behaviours.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

He lets go of Jaskier’s hand, leaning on the kitchen table, a sense of determination coursing through his veins like he’s never felt before. “Promise me,” he says.

Jaskier looks at him, confused, curious, fire kindling in those icy eyes.

“Promise me that you’re not gonna walk away from me the first chance you get. Promise me I’m not throwing away the last ten years of my life and my freedom of guilt for you to leave me behind.”

Jaskier blinks, then smiles at him, bright and joyful. “Love, I would never. I would sooner kill every person on this damned continent than leave you behind. I would sooner kill _myself_ than walk away from you.”

And Geralt sees nothing but the bare, honest truth in those ocean eyes. He nods. “Let’s get going, then.”

\---

He shows Jaskier where he’s stored his knife set - somewhere at the back of a kitchen cabinet, once bought in the naive hope that he might cook his own meals every night, when he’d first bought this house, before being put away and forgotten over the years. They’re still sharp and clean, and he leaves Jaskier in the kitchen, marvelling over the blades, running a gentle finger across the edge, almost cutting himself - while Geralt goes back to the bedroom.

He takes the duffelbag from under the bed, along with the plastic bag of money. It’s not a lot, only a few hundred bucks, and he considers raiding his own bank account before finding De Vries and Stregobor. He sighs, stuffing the money in the duffelbag, along with half his closet. He supposes they won’t have the time to go shopping once they’re on the run.

A burst of adrenaline explodes in his veins, and he feels dizzy for a split second as he’s sitting there, crouching next to the bag. _He’s really doing this._ He’s running away with a serial killer to evade going to prison for something that may or may not be his fault - depending on the person you ask.

He’s about to become a fugitive.

He’s about to become a criminal.

He’s about to become an outlaw.

And, as daunting as the idea should be - as daunting as it _is,_ he can’t help the small smile that creeps onto his face. Yes, they’ll have the rest of the world against them, but at least they’ll be on each other’s side.

He stuffs the clothes, the money, his handcuffs, and his gun in the bag, zipping it closed. He barely remembers to put on his shirt and shoes before slinging the bag over his shoulder, leaving the bedroom for the last time.

Jaskier looks up. “Ready, love?”

Geralt frowns, blinking a few times. “Not entirely.” He hands the bag to Jaskier. “Put this in the car, dear.”

Jaskier smiles at him, crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes as he nods, turning around, snatching the car keys off the living room table, heading out of the front door.

Geralt, in turn, goes to the garage. He was supposed to clean out the mess at some point, supposed to make room so he can park his car inside instead of in the street, but he never got around to it. He digs under a few piles of useless rubbish, pulling out three jerrycans of gasoline. He’d once stored them there, just in case he forgot to refuel on his way back from work one day, but he never did, so they just stood there for years, gathering dust and cobwebs.

And now, he finally has a use for them. Just not in a way that he had expected.

He starts with the first one, emptying half of it in the garage - there’s so many wooden planks, bought for building things he never got around to building, he’s sure the fire will catch on soon, here.

He empties the other half in the living room. The other two are spread out over the rest of the ground floor - he supposes that, if the ground floor is completely destroyed, the top half of the house will follow suit. He realizes he never used any of the rooms upstairs. It doesn’t matter anymore, no one will ever get the chance to use them.

He does a mental check, snatching his passport and wallet from his bedroom as an afterthought, just in case. He takes a matchbook from the kitchen, walking to the front door. He lights a match, taking one last look at his house, before staring into the flame, letting it burn up the match until the fire nearly touches his fingers, before tossing it onto the carpet.

He closes the door behind him, just as the first flames start catching on, the gasoline accellerating the fire at a terrifying speed, and as he walks to the car, he can already see the flickering shadows of the windowframes, cast by the flames.

Jaskier looks at him, smiling, as Geralt gets into the driver’s seat, turning the keys in the ignition, starting the car, driving away from the burning remains of his house - the ruins of his life.

\---

Going back to the prison is painfully familiar and strangely unfamiliar at the same time. Sure, he’s done this countless of times before, taken these turns day in day out, but never like this - never with someone else sitting next to him, never with any other intention than just doing his job and cashing his next paycheck, never with the knowledge that this is the last time.

He glances at Jaskier next to him from time to time, smiling at the way the brown curls whip in the air coming through the open window, at the way he basks in the sunlight, at the way he looks perfectly relaxed and happy.

And when he gets the overwhelming urge to tell Jaskier that he’s beautiful, he doesn’t hold back, for once.

He stops at the bank on the way to the prison. He looks up as Jaskier says: “Let me.”

He frowns. “Let you what?”

“Get the money, empty your bank account.” He says it so matter-of-factly that Geralt’s almost tempted to just let him, without asking why. Almost.

“They’re gonna suspect something’s up when a stranger empties my bank account.”

Jaskier smiles at him triumphantly, blue eyes shining brightly as he turns around in his seat, facing Geralt. “Exactly! You see, love, I’ve been thinking. They already know I’m a murderer, but they don’t know we’re together now. If _I_ empty _your_ bank account, they might think I’m either holding you hostage or that I’ve killed you and burned your house down. That way, if we ever get caught, you can feign innocence!”

Geralt hates to admit it, but it’s a pretty solid idea. However- “Who says I want to feign innocence? Who says I don’t want to stick by your side if you go to prison?”

Jaskier sighs, reaching forward to softly cradle Geralt’s cheek in his left hand. “If I go to jail, at least let me have the knowledge that you’re still free, love. Let me at least have that.”

Geralt sighs, and even if he’s still reluctant, he can’t say no to those pleading, blue eyes. “Fine.” He takes his wallet, handing it to Jaskier. “Just be careful, dear.”

Jaskier laughs, reaching into the back seat, zipping the bag open and taking the gun out, tucking it into the back of his jeans before he takes the card from Geralt. He’s still grinning as he presses a kiss to Geralt’s cheek. “Love, you know me. I’m never careful.”

Adn when Jaskier leaves the car, Geralt remains seated, hands tightening around the steering wheel, engine still running. And when he sees the younger man walking into the bank, he feels a jolt of adrenaline and deep-rooted arousal coursing through his veins at the sight of the gun sticking out from Jaskier’s waistband.

And when there’s no movement or sound coming from the building for a good ten minutes, he waits patiently - he trusts Jaskier to come out of there unscathed. And when he hears a gunshot ringing out through the street, he jumps a bit in surprise, but keeps his eyes trained on the bank.

And when there are no other signs of life inside the building for another ten minutes, he does start to worry a little bit. Just a little bit.

And when he hears police sirens in the distance, he does grow a bit impatient, a bit more worried.

And when Jaskier runs out of the building with another duffelbag full of, presumably, money, grinning wildly, something feral in those blue eyes as he jumps into the car, slamming the door behind him, Geralt sighs in relief and takes off at full speed, in the opposite direction of the sirens.

“Everything okay? I heard a gunshot-”

His sentence is cut off when Jaskier pulls his face towards him, kissing him deeply. Geralt smiles, before pulling away, looking at the road again. “I assume that means you’re fine.”

“It does, love. Everything alright.” He sounds out of breath, unbridled joy and wildness on his features. “Was just a warning shot. No one got hurt, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Geralt nods, slowly relaxing into his seat as he takes a detour around the police sirens, to the prison. 

“So,” Jaskier mumbles after a while, “what’s the plan, love?”

Geralt shrugs. “Go to the prison, use the system to find De Vries and Stregobor, pay them a visit, run away together.” He frowns for a bit, letting another idea run through his mind. “Maybe get a dog?”

Jaskier laughs, head thrown back, sunlight bright on his skin, carefree, happy. It’s the most beautiful thing Geralt’s seen in his entire life. 

He takes a mental note, photographing this moment in his mind, storing it away to be remembered until the day he dies - just the two of them, the whole world at their feet, at their mercy, the future bright and wide open for them, full of possibilities.

He never ever wants to forget this moment. He doubts he ever will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can still find me on tumblr @queen-squish!


	10. Hot Blood, These Veins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bigass warning for torture at the end, y'all! Genuinely, this chapter might not contain much of it but the next chapter's gonna be full of it so just... avoid that if that's not your thing.
> 
> Y'all know the gist by now. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it! (Especially comments, they fuel me)(like gasoline on fire)(HA)

They make it to the prison without running into any police officers, and Geralt parks his car at the back of the building, leaving his keys in the lock. After all, they should probably steal a car after this to make sure they don’t get tracked as easily.

Surprisingly, his badge still works on the back door to the prison, and he and Jaskier slip inside. 

It’s quiet in the prison - it’s dinner time, by now, so the inmates are all in the dining room, with most of the guards. He’s confident they won’t run into any of his ex-coworkers in the hallways, either, since it’s only a short distance from the back of the prison to the director’s office. 

Well enough, they make it there without seeing another living soul - except for the one cockroach that scurried up the wall as they passed. It’s dark in the office, De Vries probably having gone home for the day an hour or so ago. 

He’s about to sit down in front of the desktop when Jaskier beats him to it. “Let me, love. Only my fingerprints, remember?” He wiggles his fingers in front of Geralt’s face in demonstration and Geralt chuckles, kissing them softly before Jaskier pulls his hands back, laughing as well. “Just tell me what to do, exactly.”

“Well, first you gotta turn it on.” 

Jaskier nods, frowning. “Right, yeah, right. Makes sense.”

He does as he’s told - for once - and turns the computer on, staring blankly at the screen for a few minutes as it loads. “It says I have to log in.”

Geralt frowns. “Hmm.” He opens the top drawer of the desk, digging through the papers. “It’s likely they haven’t changed the system yet, so soon, so she probably-” he smiles triumphantly as he pulls out a tiny piece of paper from the bottom of the drawer with Palmer’s login and password “-aha! She wrote the old one down.”

“Love, you’re a goddamn genius.” Jaskier smiles at him as Geralt scoffs, handing the paper to the younger man.

His face then contorts in horror as Jaskier starts typing with his two index fingers. “You look like a grandma.”

Jaskier shrugs, tongue poking out between his lips as he continues typing with two fingers. “I’m not good with technology.”

“My gods, how did you ever escape from prison?”

Jaskier shrugs again, beaming up at him as he smashes his finger down on the ‘Enter’ key. “By the power of my love for you.”

Geralt sighs, shaking his head lightly, smiling anyways, as he goes to stand behind Jaskier, laying his chin on his love’s shoulder to see the screen. He points at a particular icon. “Click that. Twice, dear. Twice quickly, now you’re just changing the name. Yes, like that. Now, click on ‘History’, then click ‘Clear’, ‘Clear all,’ yes.” He pecks a small kiss underneath Jaskier’s ear. “Well done. Now close it. Use the X, dear. Now, the other icon, that one. No, not that one, the one I’m pointing to. The one I’m pointing to, dear. _No, not that one, the one I’m pointing to._ Yes, that one. Again, ‘History’, ‘Clear’, ‘Clear all’, then ‘Disable Cameras’. That’s it. Now, ‘Employees’, yes that one, click on it. _Twice, Jaskier._ Hmm.” He frowns, committing De Vries and Stregobor’s adresses to his memory. “Now, turn the computer off. Right.”

He stands up straight again, smiling as Jaskier saunters through the office door, following the younger man into the hall, taking his hand. “Now we get the hell out of here.”

“And steal a car?”

“Yes, and steal a car.” He rolls his eyes at the smile Jaskier gives him, all sparkly eyes and rosy cheeks and sharp teeth. “And maybe murder some people, what the hell.”

And, by the gods, Geralt shouldn’t be fond of the excited look Jaskier throws his way at the mention of murder, but he does anyways.

—

Stealing a car isn’t difficult. Finding Stregobor’s house, a few blocks away, isn’t, either. Willing himself to actually let go of the steering wheel and opening the door, however, is.

He sits there, tensed up under the light of the streetlamps, darkness beginning to fall, hands clenched around the steering wheel. Jaskier’s hand is rubbing his shoulder in soothing, circulair motions, as he presses soft kisses to Geralt’s jaw and neck. “It’s okay, love, it’s okay. If you don’t want to go, then you don’t have to go. It’s okay. I can handle this on my own.”

Geralt knows Jaskier’s right, knows the younger man can just saunter into the house, pull the trigger or use a knife, and walk right back out without as much as a second thought. And he knows that Jaskier can stand his ground, if Stregobor were to fight back.

But he also doesn’t want to let his love do this alone. Doesn’t want to sit here in the car in deafening silence, waiting for the bang of a gunshot or the slam of the front door. He can’t just sit here and do nothing and wait and listen.

But he also doesn’t know if he can go in there, if he can watch someone being murdered - no matter how much that person is standing in his way. And that’s assuming that he’ll just be watching. That’s assuming he, himself, won’t be the one holding the knife or the gun or the sides of Stregobor’s head before he snaps his neck.

He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say, and even if he did, he feels like he _can’t -_ can’t move, can’t talk, can’t let go of the steering wheel as his knuckles slowly turn white.

“Love,” Jaskier whispers to him, “it’s time, alright? I’m going in there, with or without you. I know that sounds harsh, but we don’t have much time left, we can’t sit here all night.”

Geralt exhales a deep, shuddering breath, then nods, once. 

He finally releases the steering wheel from his death grip, taking the gun Jaskier offers to him, tucking it into his waistband. He tries not to slam the door of the car when he gets out, but Jaskier seems to slam it extra hard, making Geralt cringe.

“Just to give ‘em a little heads-up.” Jaskier winks at him, diffusing the tenseness in Geralt’s shoulder, as he chuckles.

They walk to the front door, and Jaskier knocks. And somehow, that’s the thing that surprises Geralt the most.

He’s never imagined what it would be like to kill somebody. He has imagined Jaskier killing someone, though, but he’s never tried to think about the moments leading up to it, or the ones afterwards. He’s never thought he would be by Jaskier’s side, about to murder someone.

And even if he had, he never would’ve guessed that they would _knock_ first. But then again, it’s as good a start to a murder as any. At least they don’t have to break in, at least they don’t have to try not to leave fingerprints everywhere.

Jaskier leans back a bit as they wait. “How do you want to do this, love? Just shoot him when he opens? Force our ways inside, tie him down, make him suffer a bit first? Your choice, love, I want you to be comfortable.”

Geralt nearly snorts at that. Yes, like he could ever be comfortable murdering someone. 

_Maybe one day,_ a small voice at the back of his mind whispers, and he pushes it away.

He contemplates his options for a second. “Maybe tie him down and make him suffer a bit, and give De Vries a merciful death. She seemed alright. Stregobor is just a douchebag.”

Jaskier smiles at him, wiggling his shoulders a bit. “Ooh. Best of both worlds, I see. Bold move.”

Geralt opens his mouth to answer when the door opens, revealing a tired-looking Stregobor in a bathrobe and slippers. His greyish eyes widen in surprise at the sight in front of him. “Wh-”

Geralt pulls the gun out from his jeans, pointing it at the man. “One wrong move and you’re dead.”

Jaskier looks at him, mouth slightly agape in shock and wonder. “You’re so hot when you say things like that.”

Geralt scoffs, shaking his head slightly. He turns his gaze back to Stregobor, whose hands are up in the air by now. He motions with the gun. “Move back.”

Stregobor does as he’s told, stepping back a few feet, and Geralt follows him inside, gun still trained on the man, as Jaskier closes the door behind them, locking it.

Stregobor’s face contorts in anger, hands balling into fists next to his head as Jaskier grabs a dining room chair, dragging it into the middle of the living room-kitchen space. “You fucking traitor! I should’ve known, should’ve seen this coming. You motherf-” 

Stregobor’s sentence is cut short as Jaskier elbows him into the side of his head. The man falls down into the chair, groaning as Jaskier takes his hands, cuffing them behind the chair. “Nobody talks to my boyfriend like that, asshole,” Jaskier mutters, spitting in Stregobor’s face before taking the ribbon from the bathrobe, stuffing it into the man’s mouth.

The bathrobe falls open, and Geralt takes in the sight of Stregobor, a man who prides himself in his well-put-together appearance, sitting in the chair, hands cuffed behind the back, clad in only an open bathrobe, underwear, and slippers. And, strangely enough, it brings him joy - brings him an unbridled pleasure to see a man who looks down on others - on Geralt - humiliated and reduced to nothing in the span of a few short minutes.

He takes the knife Jaskier hands to him, kneeling in front of Stregobor, dragging the tip across the man’s cheek. “You’ll have to forgive me,” he mutters, eyes trained on Stregobor’s face, contorted in rage and fear, “this is my first time so I might be a little clumsy.”

Stregobor’s scream is muffled through ribbon of the bathrobe when the tip of the knife pushes clean through the skin and muscle of his cheek, into the fabric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm also on tumblr y'all! @queen-squish


	11. My Pleasure Is Their Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings! Torture! Graphic and lots of it! Also murder!
> 
> Seriously, if you're not for that stuff, skip this chapter. Also I know I haven't been uploading frequenty, but I have like 5 other WIPs and a bunch of exams so,,,, yikes.  
> F stregobor, you will not be missed.  
> (also love the fact that the lyric/chapter title really matches the contents of this chapter. Decadence...)
> 
> Y'all know what's up already, but I'm still gonna say it. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

He pulls the knife back, out of Stregobor’s cheek, tears and blood running down the skin into his mousey grey beard. Geralt looks at it for a second, listens to the muffled sobs of the man in front of him, revels in the power he feels coursing through his veins.

“Well, shit,” Jaskier breathes out behind him, and Geralt looks back, unsure.

“Too much?”

Jaskier shakes his head, a lazy smile spreading across his face. “No, love, not at all. You mind waiting for a second, though?”

Geralt nods, and watches as Jaskier takes another chair from the kitchen table, dragging it over until it’s opposite Stregobor. He sits down on it, elbows on his spread knees, hands hanging loosely between his legs as he bends forward. “I do love a good show.”

Geralt grins, turning back to Stregobor, who’s now trying to yell at him through the bloodied ribbon, crimson still streaming down his cheek and neck. Geralt frowns. “Sorry, what was that?” He pulls the cloth out.

Stregobor’s chest is heaving, eyes wild and angry, as he stares at Geralt. “You sick son of a bitch. You’ll pay for this, I’ll make you goddamn p-”

His words are cut off as Geralt stuffs the cloth back into his mouth. “Yeah, I’ve heard enough.” He digs his thumb in the wound in Stregobor’s cheek, brushing against bloody teeth. He turns back to Jaskier as the man in front of them screams, muffled. “What do you reckon? Cut his tongue out to keep him quiet?”

Jaskier sighs, leaning his chin in one hand. “Dunno. I think that’s up to him.” He looks past Geralt, at Stregobor. “Are you going to insult my love again?”

Stregobor frantically shakes his head, grey eyes wide and scared. Jaskier shrugs. “’mkay, he can keep his tongue, I guess.” He reaches over to the dinner table, taking a bowl of grapes. “These yours?” he asks Stregobor, who nods. Jaskier chuckles, as he pops a grape into his mouth. “Not anymore.”

Geralt frowns. “Did you even eat anything substantial the past couple of days?”

Jaskier shakes his head, mouth full of grapes. Geralt sighs, turning back to Stregobor. “Do you have any leftovers? Maybe some bread?”

He pulls the rag out, and Stregebor nods hesitantly. “I got... pasta. In the fridge?”

“Thank you.” Geralt puts the rag back in, turning to Jaskier. “Please eat something, dear, I don’t want you to faint.”

Jaskier sighs, then shrugs. “Alright, mom.” He does land a little kiss on the top of Geralt’s head, where he’s still crouched in front of Stregobor, as he walks to the fridge. “Oooh, pesto! I love pesto.”

“Right,” Geralt mutters. “Where were we?”

“You were torturing him, love,” Jaskier calls over his shoulder, as he pulls open random drawers, rummaging through them for a fork, taking a bite of the pasta when he finally finds one.

“Right.” He turns back to Stregobor once again. “You got any ideas for torturing you?” he asks the man. Stregobor shakes his head, and Geralt sighs. “Like I said: I’m a bit new to all this stuff.” He pulls out his phone. “Let me google it.”

He hears Jaskier snort behind him. Then: “You could pull his nails out.” Stregobor lets out a muffled cry of protest. “No?” Jaskier asks. “Hmm. Maybe break some of his bones? Cut him up some more? Scalp him? Pour boiling water on him? Choke him? Burn him? Ooh, that’d be an interesting one. I know you like to play with fire, love.”

Geralt nods, putting his phone back in his pocket. He turns his face back up to Stregobor. “Alright. You choose. And if you don’t, I’ll choose for you.”

He pulls the rag out and Stregobor breathes a few shaky breaths. “Please don’t-”

Geralt stuffs the rag back in. “Right. Guess I’ll choose, then.” He considers his options for a bit, mind blank except for the wheel of torture, turning in his head, as he waits for the little black arrow to land on something. Finally: “I really hope you’re not too attached to your nails.”

They tear up one of the curtains, taking off the cuffs and tying Stregobor’s hands to the arms of the chair, and his calves to the legs, for good measure - in case he tries to kick Geralt.

The man sobs and screams as Geralt wedges one of the knives under the nail of his index finger. He tries to pull it up, frowns when he meets too much resistance. “Jaskier?” he asks, and he feels his love’s presence behind him.

“Try wiggling it around a bit, detach more of the nail before you take it off.” His voice is a bit muffled, undoubtedly stuffed with pasta.

Geralt nods. “Right, good idea.” He moves the blade from side to side, ignoring the muffled screams above him, as blood streams down the arm and leg of the chair, onto the once so white carpet.

He tries again, moving the knife up, and this time he succeeds - the nail falls on the floor. He moves his other hand up, thumb pressing into the reddened and raw flesh, feeling the soft and slippery texture of it, mixed with the warmth of the blood. 

Stregobor suddenly grows limp, his head falling forward. Geralt startles, pushing his hand against the man’s neck, sighing in relief when he feels a pulse.

“Did he pass out?” Jaskier asks behind him, and Geralt nods, smiling a bit when his love lets out a quiet sound of disappointment.

He turns back to Jaskier, who’s sitting in the chair again, cross-legged, elbows on his knees, chin on his fists. “Maybe slap him around ‘til he wakes up? Throw some water over him?” he asks.

Jaskier shrugs, the interest in those pale, blue eyes quickly dwindling, now that Stregobor is no longer conscious. “We haven’t got all night, we still gotta kill De Vries before either she or Stregobor are expected at work tomorrow morning.” He shrugs again. “Maybe pull out some more nails and see if he wakes up?”

Geralt nods, turning back to Stregobor, as Jaskier starts inspecting his own nails, face passive and a bit annoyed. As Geralt wedges the blade under the next nail, Jaskier starts humming softly.

“Hmm. What song is that?” The nail comes off pretty quickly, now that he knows the proper technique. He moves on to the next one. Stregobor is still unconscious.

“’Everybody wants to rule the world’,” Jaskier replies. Geralt chuckles, shaking his head lightly.

“And do you?” he asks, as he takes off the next nail. “Want to rule the world?”

He hears Jaskier laugh, then the rustling of clothes and footsteps, as his love walks towards him, laying his chin on Geralt’s head, watching as he works. “Love, I already do.”

Geralt laughs. “Can’t argue with that.” 

Stregobor wakes up again, and immediately starts screaming, muffled through the fabric. “Ah, good, you’re back,” Jaskier says. “Hey, I have an idea. What if we don’t take off the next nail?” Stregobor sighs in relief, tears streaming down his cheeks. “What if we take off the whole finger instead?”

The man starts pleading through the rag in his mouth. Geralt sighs, digging his thumb in the raw, exposed flesh of one of the fingers. Stregobor screams. “Stop begging, it’s not gonna help. It’s annoying.”

He moves his head up slightly, and Jaskier leans forward, pecking a small kiss to Geralt’s forehead. “What do you think?”

Geralt shrugs. “Works for me.” 

Jaskier leans his chin on Geralt’s head again, as he tries to take Stregobor’s ring finger. He sighs in annoyance as the man tries to curl it under his palm, tries to pull his hand back. “Stop it.” Stregobor doesn’t listen, and Geralt jams the knife into the top of his hand, through muscle and bone, into the wood of the chair.

Stregobor screams again, as Geralt holds his hand up. Jaskier puts another knife in it, and he curls his fingers around the handle. “I told you to stop it. I warned you.” He roughly grabs Stregobor’s chin, his thumb digging into the wound in his cheek, as the man sobs. “You brought this upon yourself. Understand?”

Stregobor looks at him with wide, grey eyes. Geralt clenches his jaw, a wave of annoyance washing over him, and his other hand drops the knife he’s holding, grabbing the one that’s still sticking out of Stregobor’s hand instead, twisting it around.

He waits for the man’s screams to die down. “Answer me when I ask you a question. You. Brought. This. Upon. Yourself. Understand?”

Stregobor nods shakily, and Geralt lets go of his chin, taking the knife he dropped on the ground again, putting the blade against the man’s finger as Stregobor quietly sobs.

“Gods, you’re so hot when you do things like that,” Jaskier whispers.

They hear sirens in the distance, and Geralt frowns. “You think someone called the cops?” He looks back, and Jaskier shrugs. 

“Don’t know.” He thinks for a second. “Maybe best if we wrap it up here. We shouldn’t push our luck by staying too long.”

Geralt nods. “You’re right.” He turns back to Stregobor. “Looks like you got off easy.”

“Should I do it, or do you wanna do it?” Jaskier asks, as Stregobor’s grey eyes flit between them, panicked. 

Geralt contemplates his options for half a second. “You do it,” he says, as he hands the knife back to Jaskier. 

His love nods, as Geralt pulls the other knife out of Stregobor’s hand, watching as his love goes to stand behind the chair, taking the man’s chin into his hand, tilting his head back.

“See you in hell,” Jaskier whispers to Stregobor, before he cuts his throat.

Geralt rolls his eyes, as the man struggles for a few seconds, blood streaming down his front. “You’re so dramatic.”

Jaskier laughs, and leans forward as Geralt stands up from where he’d been crouching, kissing him softly. 

Stregobor goes limp, and Jaskier moves to the kitchen, taking a towel, wiping down the knives and Stregobor’s skin where Geralt touched him. He turns on the tap, throwing the towel in the sink. “There. Now they won’t know you were here.”

Geralt smiles, pulling his love flush against him. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For everything.”

Jaskier kisses him again, arms curling around his neck. “Love,” he whispers back, “that’s all you. I just gave you the first push.” He extracts himself from Geralt’s grip, flinging the front door open. “Now, let’s go. We have someone to kill, still.”

Geralt laughs, and follows Jaskier out of the house, leaving Stregobor’s slowly cooling body behind, still seated in the chair, in the middle of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also you can find me on tumblr @queen-squish. Let's vibe together, why not?


	12. I Love To Watch The Castles Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every chapter I'm like "do my readers even need warnings anymore, like they already know what's up by now, right?" and every chapter I'm also like "yeah, just to be safe."
> 
> So here we go! Warnings! Murder, stealing, America (yes, they're in America now, don't @ me), smut, home of sexuality!
> 
> Is that it? I think that's it. Either way, sorry it took a while to update, I was Tired(TM). As always, thank you so much for reading, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment (I love comments, they Fuel Me).

Finding De Vries’s house isn’t hard. Walking to her front door and knocking isn’t, either.

Surprisingly enough, shooting her in the face the second she opens the door, is quite easy as well.

Jaskier whistles softly next to him. “Wow. You’re very efficient.” He looks up at Geralt. “And _I’m_ very turned on, actually.”

Geralt scoffs, rolling his eyes before he grabs Jaskier’s hand, dragging him away from the body before he can get any wild ideas - like quickly retreating to the bedroom, if only for a little while. Of course, these ideas would be Jaskier’s, and Jaskier’s alone. Obviously.

Besides, there’s a big chance one of the neighbours is going to call the police, with the gunshot and all - so it’s better to get out of here as soon as possible.

As soon as Jaskier slams the passenger door, Geralt drives away, toward the highway. “So, where to?” he asks, stealing a glance of Jaskier’s profile, of his flushed cheeks and the light in his eyes, of the way he chews on his lip for half a second.

“The coast.” He looks out the window, before looking at Geralt. “I’ve always wanted to see Los Angeles.”

Geralt smiles slightly, taking Jaskier’s hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Los Angeles it is, then.”

\---

After a couple of hours of driving, he takes an exit, parking at a McDonald’s, when the sun starts to rise. He kisses Jaskier quickly, can’t help but bask at the love in those blue eyes. “You get us breakfast, I’ll steal a car.”

Jaskier gives him a crooked grin, before reaching towards the bag in the backseat, taking out a bill. “Will do.” He kisses Geralt again, a bit deeper this time, lips lingering for a few seconds. “See you soon?”

“See you soon.”

And with that, he’s gone. Geralt watches for a few seconds as Jaskier walks into the McDonald’s, then gets their things from the backseat - the two duffelbags, one with clothes and weapons, the other with money.

He walks around the parking lot for a bit, before spotting a vintage-looking red convertible. _Perfect, Jaskier will love it._

He glances around, finding the parking lot deserted, and dumps the bags in the back of the car, before hopping over the door into the driver’s seat. With very little outside help ~~(google)~~ , he hotwires the thing, before getting out again, walking back to his own car.

He opens the hood, taking the knife he’s been keeping tucked behind his belt - just to be safe - before stabbing a hole in the gas tank. Gasoline starts flowing out, onto the asphalt, and he looks for a few seconds, before putting the knife back under his belt. He walks around the car, opening all the doors, making sure there’s nothing left that he might need later, before he leans against the side, waiting for Jaskier.

After a few short minutes, Jaskier finally comes bounding out of the restaurant, two bags in his hand, a triumphant smile on his face that suggests he hasn’t been up to any good. Geralt sighs, shaking his head slightly before Jaskier quickly kisses him. “I’m not even gonna ask what you did in there.”

Jaskier winks at him. “Nothing you wouldn’t do.”

“That’s not saying much.” He sighs, pointing to the convertible. “Got us a new car.” He watches as Jaskier’s face lights up in excitement, basks in the light in those blue eyes.

He softly pushes the younger man’s shoulder. “You go ahead and get in, I’ll finish up here.”

Jaskier looks back at him for a second, pressing another quick kiss to his lips, before practically skipping to the convertible. Geralt watches him for a second or so, before fishing a matchbook out of his pocket. He lights one, taking a few steps back, throwing it in the puddle of gasoline under the car.

It catches fire immediately, the flames licking at the frame of the car, at the seats through the open doors. He turns around, half-jogging to the convertible, hopping over the driver’s seat door, before peeling out of the parking lot.

\---

He’s always hated roadtrips, has always hated spending hours and hours sitting in a car, watching town after similar town flash by, watching the stretched out fields. He hated the numbness in his mind he always got after a few hours, hated being stuck in a small space for a pretty indefinite amount of time, hated just sitting there and waiting to get to where he needed to be.

But with Jaskier next to him, it’s different. He loves the way he sits there, feet on the dashboard - which, yeah, is totally unsafe, but he looks so _happy -_ loves the way his head is leaned back, exposing the collumn of his neck to Geralt as he lazily watches out the window, arm on the passenger door, sunglasses he stole from someone at the McDonald’s on his face.

He loves the way Jaskier softly hums along to the songs on the ancient radio, singing a few words here and there - he loves Jaskier’s voice. He loves how carefree he is - how carefree they _both_ are. He loves the road, open and free in front of them, like the future.

He loves the sunlight in Jaskier’s hair, on his skin. Loves the wind that makes his shirt ripple. Loves the possibilities ahead.

But most of all, loves Jaskier.

And he doesn’t hesitate to tell him so. Jaskier turns his head, grinning wildly at him, fingers trailing along the line of Geralt’s jaw softly, before turning to look at the view again, at the stretched out desert behind, next to, and in front of them. The sun slightly hurts on his skin, but the wind blows the pain away, tangling his hair.

He steals a glance of Jaskier’s profile again, as his love hums along to the music on the radio, his voice barely reaching Geralt’s ears before it’s snatched away into thin air, as sunlight dances on his skin, his feet propped up on the dashboard, his head thrown back, his arm on the passenger door.

He’s always hated roadtrips - but he could get used to this.

\---

They decide to spend the night at a motel next to the highway - since it’s still about 11 hours until they reach Los Angeles, and they haven’t slept all night. Geralt pays the bored-looking guy behind the counter, narrowing his eyes as he sees the guy looking at Jaskier, who’s reaching for something in the backseat of the car, nearly bent in half.

Geralt feels something hot and red carve at the inside of his skull and slams his hand on the counter, startling the guy. “Eyes to yourself,” he growls, and the guy nods shakily, sliding the key to the room towards Geralt.

He takes it, throwing the clerk one last, warning look, before he turns around, stalking to the car. “You gotta stop bending over like that, you look like you’re practically begging to be fucked,” he spits at Jaskier.

The younger man looks up, smirk playing around his lips, before taking Geralt’s hand, sucking his thumb into his mouth. Geralt can only watch, can only feel arousal pool in his stomach at the feeling of that wicked tongue swirling around his thumb, at the warmth of Jaskier’s mouth.

Finally, Jaskier releases his thumb with a wet _pop,_ before standing up, throwing a wink at Geralt. “That’s because I am, love.”

He snatches the key from Geralt’s hand, turning around, walking to the room. The little shit even has the audacity to give the guy at the counter a little wave with his fingers, before looking over his shoulder at Geralt - undoubtedly trying to make him jealous.

He frowns. _Well, it’s not working._ He looks at the clerk, sees the way those muddy brown eyes follow Jaskier’s backside and hips all the way to the door to their room, and feels the same hot-red spike carving at him.

_Okay, maybe it is working._ He throws the guy another dirty look, hand on the gun tucked into the side of his jeans, watching as the clerk spots it, watching as those eyes grow wide, watches as he looks at Geralt in fear, then looks away. Revels in the sick satisfaction that coils in his gut, along with his ever growing arousal.

He slams the door to the motel room behind him, locking it resolutely. He’s barely turned around or Jaskier’s already pressing against him, desperate lips searching out his.

He snarls, taking the younger man by his throat, turning them around, slamming Jaskier’s back against the door.

“Did you enjoy that? Did you get off on making me jealous?”

Jaskier smiles wickedly, rutting his hips against Geralt’s, and he feels the evidence that Jaskier did, in fact, enjoy it very much. “What do you think?”

Geralt growls, pressing his body flush against Jaskier’s, preventing him from moving, keeping him pinned down, as his hand around the slender throat tightens slightly. “Try again, _boy.”_

Arctic eyes darken, pupils growing wider ever so slightly. “I apologize. What do you think, _sir?”_

“Hmm,” Geralt rumbles, nosing at the sensitive spot under Jaskier’s ear, drinking in the soft gasps he lets out. “I think you deserve to be punished.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I'm on tumblr! @queen-squish
> 
> EDIT: I completely forgot to say this, but I'm also working on a spinoff sorta thing of this, where Jaskier and Geralt are both in prison and Geralt is like The Tough Guy(TM) that everyone's scared of but Jaskier (the little shit) is like "Imma get to know this dude". It's like 12k words already, and I'm still working on it, so I'll probably upload it in chapters instead of all at once, but I'll link to it in the notes of this fic once I do upload the first chapter of the other fic.   
> Either way I really wanna thank Valkiria99 for giving me the idea, like I'm having so much fun with it and I really hope you'll like it, just... thank you so much!!!


	13. These Golden Ashes Turn To Dirt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just realized I might be running out of chapter titles before this fic is over. Uhoh.
> 
> Warnings! Smut!!!! Dirty talk!!!!! Y'all know the drill!!!! 
> 
> Also! The first chapter of the /other/ prison fic is finally up! It's called "All You Have Is Your Fire", and it's basically about Jaskier and Geralt both being in prison, except Geralt is kinda the Silent Brooding Type (bc of course he is) and Jaskier is a curious idiot who wants to get to know the possibly very dangerous man (bc of course he is and of course he does). It's based on a comment on one of the previous chapters of this fic, by the lovely Valkiria99 (so thank you for that!).  
> Anyways, check that out if you're interested.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment! (and hey, if you've got an idea that you would like me to write, I actually might)(as proven by All You Have Is Your Fire)(and if not, well, comments still fuel me, so)

Jaskier desperately tries to move his hips, tries to rut against Geralt, who’s still pinning him down.

Geralt sighs softly, nipping at Jaskier’s jaw, at his ear. “Tell me, boy, how far would you have gone to make me jealous? Would you have flirted with him? Would you have climbed in his lap? Would you have sucked his cock while looking me in the eye?”

Jaskier whimpers, still desperately searching out friction, finding none.

“Answer me, boy. Would you have let him fuck you? Just to make me jealous?”

“ _Yes,”_ Jaskier whispers, hands clawing at Geralt’s shirt, breath leaving him in shallow pants.

“Yes, _what?”_

_“_ Yes, sir. I would’ve let...” he whimpers as Geralt presses a thigh between his legs, lets him rut against it, but only slightly, still keeping his hips pinned against the door. “I would’ve let him come in me. I would’ve spread myself open for you, would’ve showed it off.” He whines as Geralt yanks his shirt aside, bites into the tender skin of his shoulder. “ _Fuck._ I would’ve let you fuck his come out of me.”

“Hmm, maybe I should let you. Maybe I should let you play the perfect little slut, maybe I should absolutely ruin you after. Is that what you want, boy? To be used?”

Jaskier nods desperately, frantically. “Please, please, sir, just- _fuck. Use me,_ however you please, I don’t care.”

Geralt pulls back, looking into nearly-black eyes, their breaths intertwining between them. “However I please?” Jaskier nods again, trying to kiss Geralt, disappointed sound leaving him when Geralt moves his head back further. “So if I wanted I could tie you up, fuck your pretty little mouth as much as I want, but forbid you from touching yourself?”

He can feel Jaskier’s already wild heartbeat speed up even more against his chest, can see desperation forming in those eyes. He nods anyways. “Yes, sir.”

“But I could also fuck your hole nice and loose until you’re writhing underneath me, begging for release, correct?”

Jaskier nods again, still desperately trying to fuck himself against Geralt’s thigh, sweat starting to bead on his forehead. “ _Yes, sir.”_

_“_ I bet you’d look really pretty, begging me to let you come.” He grins, tightening his hands around Jaskier’s throat again ever so slightly, drinking in his tiny gasps and whimpers. “Do you think that’d be punishment enough, boy? Or do you need a spanking?”

He grabs a handful of Jaskier’s ass, squeezing harshly, basking in the moan Jaskier chokes out.

“Bet that would be a real sinful sight, boy, you bent over the foot of the bed, ass red, cock heavy between your legs - bet you would get off on it, too.” He takes a step back, all points of contact between his and Jaskier’s body gone, and he smiles in satisfaction when Jaskier stays exactly where he is, still pressed against the door. “Hmm. So you’ve decided to be a good boy after all. Guess the spanking’s for another time, then.” He ignores the slight disappointment in those blue eyes.

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmm. Undress, then get on the bed.”

“How would you like me on the bed, sir?”

Geralt cocks his head, slowly removing the gun from his waistband, walking to the bedside table, putting the weapon down, all the while holding eyecontact with Jaskier - weighing his options.

“On your knees and shoulders.”

Jaskier clearly can’t help himself - a wicked smile curving around his lips, as he nods, already tugging his shirt over his head. “ _Yes, sir.”_

Geralt rolls his eyes, slowly, deliberately taking his clothes off, folding them neatly, laying them on one of the chairs on the other side of the room - Jaskier’s impatience almost palpable in the air. He rummages through his bag, pulling out the bottle of lube, tossing it onto the bed next to Jaskier, who’s already in position, on his knees, shoulders pressed into the mattress, cheek on the sheets as he looks at Geralt through heavy-lidded eyes.

Geralt climbs on the bed behind him, humming appreciatively at the sight in front of him. He takes Jaskier’s hard cock in his hand, giving it a few experimental strokes, smearing precome down the shaft. Jaskier gasps softly, pushing his hips back, whining when Geralt sends a harsh slap across his ass. “Don’t move.”

“Yes, sir,” Jaskier gasps out, hands fisting the sheets next to his head.

Geralt sighs softly, rubbing his palm over the reddened skin, massaging one ass cheek, pulling it to the side a bit. “God, you’re such a perfect little slut, laid out for me like this. What do you think, boy, do you need to be stretched or can you take my cock like this?”

Jaskier wiggles his hips a bit, clearly having trouble to stop himself from moving. “Please stretch me first, sir.”

“Hmm. Fine, then. But if you come before I can fuck you, I’ll spank you so hard you can’t sit for a week, understood?”

Jaskier nods shakily, his cock twitching slightly. “Yes, sir.”

Geralt hums appreciatively, opening the bottle of lube, pouring some at the top of Jaskier’s ass, letting it run down the cleft, over his hole, basking in Jaskier’s soft whimpers at the sensation as he pours a generous amount into his own hand.

He pushes his other hand down on Jaskier’s back, forcing him to arch, exposing his ass even further, before he slips a finger into his tight hole.

He curses under his breath, his self-control already crumbling, as he imagines how perfect Jaskier’s ass would be around his cock, how perfectly it would clench for him.

He stills, taking deep breaths, steadying himself, before he adds another finger, meeting a little more resistance, but still sliding in easily. 

“Been fucked a lot, boy? You’re already so nice and loose, so ready to take a cock up that perfect little ass of yours.”

Jaskier smiles over his shoulder, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t know what you would count as ‘a lot’, sir, but none have been as big as you.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, slowly moving his fingers in and out, curling them down a bit, in search of that perfect spot. “Flattery will get you nowhere, boy.”

Jaskier gasps softly as Geralt adds a third finger, spreading them a bit, scissoring them in and out of his hole. “Not flattery-” he almost chokes on his words when Geralt curls his fingers, and he knows he’s finally found Jaskier’s prostate, pushing against it more. “Just- just a fact. _Oh fuck.”_

_“_ Hmm. That feel good?” he asks, pushing against that sweet spot again, seeing Jaskier shiver beneath him, drinking in every little gasp and moan. “Think you could take another finger? Or do you like it when it hurts a little bit? Do you like it when you have to stretch around my cock?”

“I- _please._ Please just fuck me, please.”

Geralt clenches his jaw, leaning forward, ignoring the indignant whimper Jaskier lets out when he removes his hand from his ass, grabbing a fistful of his hair instead, tipping his head back uncomfortably.

“ _Please what?”_

_“_ Please, sir, please,” Jaskier pants, “please, I need you to fuck me, I just- _please.”_

_“_ Hmm.” He sits up straight again, taking the bottle of lube and pouring some into his hand, spreading it over his painfully hard cock. “Only because you asked so nicely.”

“ _Fuck’s sake, Geralt, please just-”_ His sentence is cut off by a choked moan as Geralt starts pressing in, groaning at the slight resistance his cock meets.

“God, you’re so perfect,” he manages to grit through his teeth, when he’s fully seated, hips flush against Jaskier’s. He leans forward again, grabbing the younger man by the back of his neck. “Don’t come unless I tell you to.”

He doesn’t give Jaskier a chance to respond, as he pulls halfway out, before slamming back in, groaning at the way Jaskier clenches around him slightly, at the way he moans into the sheets obscenely.

He sets a slow but harsh pace, slamming into Jaskier every time, the sound of skin on skin loud in the motel room, mingling with Jaskier’s gasps and moans, his soft begs of “ _please, please more, faster, please, I need you to fuck me harder”._

He bends forward again, slowly increasing his pace, Jaskier’s moans increasing in volume, getting higher in pitch, the words losing their meaning as he becomes a panting mess beneath him. He takes the skin of Jaskier’s shoulder between his teeth, biting down hard enough to hurt, but not enough to break skin, earning him a sharp cry from the younger man.

“Do you think that little shit at the front desk can hear us? I bet so, bet he’s sitting there with his own cock in his hand, imagining it was him fucking into you instead of me. Bet you would like it, too, if he was.”

Jaskier shakes his head frantically. “No, no, I‘m yours. Yours alone.”

“Hmm,” Geralt mumbles into the skin of Jaskier’s back. “Mine alone. I like the sound of that.”

“Please, please, I’m so close, _so close,_ please just let me come.”

Geralt snarls, taking Jaskier’s hands, pinning them behind his back before hoisting them both upright, fucking into Jaskier with renewed fervor. “ _No,_ not until I tell you to.”

Jaskier cries out in frustration and pleasure at the new angle, and Geralt knows he’s hitting his prostate with every harsh thrust.

“Please, please, _please, please, please,”_ Jaskier pants, voice dropping to a whisper, repeating the word like a prayer, as he gasps softly, trying to stave his orgasm off. “ _Please, I can’t hold on much longer.”_

“You will not come unless I tell you to, boy,” Geralt growls in his ear, and Jaskier cries out, tears brimming in his eyes.

“ _Please.”_

“Not yet.”

And as much as he would love to continue torturing Jaskier just a little bit longer, he can’t deny that he’s on the brink of coming, as well. Would he come, and forbid Jaskier to? Would he be so cruel? Surely Jaskier wouldn’t manage, right?

Though, he can’t deny that he is very curious to see how long the younger man can hold his orgasm back, but he decides that’s something to find out another time.

He can feel the tight coil in his belly snapping, can feel his balls tightening, pleasure washing over him, shooting up his spine. “Come for me, Jaskier,” he growls, and Jaskier cries out in relief and pleasure, his come painting white stripes over the sheets and his own stomach.

Geralt rides out his own high, giving a few more thusts for good measure, until his oversensitive cock can’t take it anymore, and he has to pull out. He suddenly gets a new idea, as he feels Jaskier shuddering against him, having collapsed against his shoulder.

He closes an arm tight around Jaskier’s chest, his other hand wiping away the come that’s running down Jaskier’s thigh, that’s smeared across his stomach, before rubbing it up and down the younger man’s sensitive and limp cock.

Jaskier shudders against him, hand meekly pushing against his arm.

“What do you think, boy?” He whispers into Jaskier’s ear. “Think you got it in you to come again?”

Jaskier shakes his head lightly, but his hips buck into Geralt’s hand anyways, his cock slowly filling out again. “No - so sensitive, I can’t.”

“Really? You were so desperate to finish just now, I’m doing you a favour by allowing you to come again.” He stills for a second. “Just say the word, and I’ll stop,” he whispers into the younger man’s ear. He waits, waits for Jaskier to say ‘cactus’, waits for the sign that this is too much, that he needs to stop.

But Jaskier shakes his head, one hand tightening around Geralt’s arm, the other coming up to tangle in his hair, pulling at it - Geralt groans at the sensation.

“Please,” Jaskier whispers out, slightly bucking into Geralt’s hand.

He hums, nosing Jaskier’s jawline as he starts pulling him off in earnest again, holding him against his chest as he trembles and whimpers at the overstimulation.

It isn’t long before he chokes out a “ _Geralt,”_ and comes with a strangled cry, muscles going limp quickly afterwards.

Geralt softly lays both of them down on their sides, pressing soft kisses up Jaskier’s spine. “God, you’re perfect.”

Jaskier laughs breathily, voice tired, words half-slurred. “You’re not too bad yourself.”

Geralt laughs, smacking Jaskier’s ass lightly, before pressing a kiss to his love’s cheek, watching as blue eyes drift closed. “Goodnight, dear.”

Jaskier gives him one, last lazy smile. “Goodnight, love,” he manages to mutter out before falling asleep, Geralt following soon after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also I'm still on tumbr! @queen-squish


	14. I've Always Liked To Play With-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeehaw!! an extra long chapter! Enjoy yall!
> 
> Warnings: smut! C&BT! Fluff!
> 
> Also find me on tumblr @king-finnigan!

They leave the motel early in the morning. There’s someone else sitting behind the counter now, an old woman as opposed to the younger man that was there yesterday, and Geralt has to fight to hide his disappointment.

The rest of the way to Los Angeles is fairly quiet, with Jaskier singing along to the music in the car, wearing the stolen sunglasses, feet propped up on the dashboard, and Geralt driving.

When they finally reach the bustling city, though, Jaskier sits upright in favour of gaping around at the tall buildings, at the sidewalks filled with people, and eventually, at the salty and warm ocean in the distance, flanked by white and soft beaches.

“It’s beautiful,” Jaskier breathes out at one point, and Geralt agrees, though his eyes are stuck on his love’s face. He’s never been a massive fan of the ocean, anyways.

They rent a motel room for the next week or so, near the beach. It’s quite expensive, but with his full bank account in his back seat, no care for the future, and the excited sparkle in Jaskier’s eyes, he can’t bring himself to really give a shit as he pays the bored-looking woman behind the desk.

After that, Geralt lets Jaskier freshen up in the bathroom, as he counts the money they’ve got. It’s several tens of thousands worth in cash, so he’s sure it’ll last them a long while - if not years, then definitely months. He stores it all away again, before tucking his gun into his waistband, some bills into his pocket, just in case.

He turns on the tv as he waits for Jaskier to finish up, but pales when he sees his own face flash across the screen. The news anchor tells the story of how he got killed by a serial killer named Jaskier and that any details about the location of his corpse or the whereabouts of his murderer would be highly appreciated and rewarded. He scoffs. Clearly, Jaskier’s plan has worked - they really do think his love killed him, burned his house down, and stole his money. Which is good, of course.

What’s a little less good, is that now it’s on national television, and the feds have basically put a price on Jaskier’s head. Worry coils in his stomach, but he quickly shuts the tv off when the door to the bathroom unlocks. (He’s not sure why Jaskier insisted on locking the bathroom door, since they’re well past that point, but he’s no longer complaining about it now, glad with the heads-up.)

Jaskier practically skips across the room, taking Geralt’s hand in both of his, basically pulling him off the bed. “Come on, I wanna go to the beach and look at the sunset.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, smiling anyways, allowing his love to pull him out of the door, having half a mind to lock it behind them, before Jaskier drags him in the direction of the beach.

And it’s a perfect afternoon, in every conceivable way, really. They walk across the boulevards, the sun shining down on them. He buys Jaskier ice cream, and Jaskier giggles like a child and forces him to buy some for himself as well, tells him he has to stop holding out on himself like that, tells him that he needs to treat himself more often, and that he deserves it. Geralt is almost inclined to believe him. Eventually, they make their way over to the beach, and they stand there together, feet in the warm water, as Jaskier watches the sunset he so desperately wanted to see, and Geralt looks at the person he would dedicate his entire life to, if Jaskier wanted it.

And he pushes the worries of what he saw on tv to the back of his mind, drowns out the realization that they can’t stay here forever with Jaskier’s soft humming and wild laughter, doesn’t allow himself to think about anything other than his love, his everything, his Jaskier.

When they eventually return back to their motel, he feels warm and soft and fuzzy, and he follows Jaskier’s advice - he lets himself. He lets himself feel warm, feel soft, feel fuzzy, as he holds his love to his chest that night, and for a moment, everything is perfect.

\---

He wakes in the morning with a start, as Jaskier pushes against his shoulder.

“Come on, sleepy, time to get up. We’ve got so much to see around here, and I really wanna swim in the ocean today.”

Geralt groans, burying his face into the pillow. “What’s the time?”

“11.”

He blinks, then frowns, looks up at Jaskier’s expectant face. “Wait, what?”

“It’s 11, it’s nearly noon, now get your lazy, perfect ass out of bed!”

Jaskier, in his excitement, has already washed and dressed, Geralt notices, and he sighs softly as he sits up. “Alright, alright. Give me ten minutes.”

“I don’t wanna wait ten minutes!”

Geralt rolls his eyes, though he can’t keep a fond smile from tugging at his lips, as he looks at his - quite annoying - love. “Are you suggesting I go outside in just my underwear?”

Jaskier laughs, climbs into his lap, and Geralt’s hands settle on the younger man’s hips. “Well, not that I would very much mind. And I don’t think the rest of LA would either - trust me, I’ve seen weirder things than people in underwear already and I’ve only been here about a day. But no, love, I don’t want the rest of the world to see you half-naked. That’s a privilege for me and me alone that I hold close to my aching heart, my love.”

Geralt snorts, landing a small kiss on Jaskier’s lips. “You’re so dramatic, dear. But if you can’t wait, then go ahead without me, I’ll catch up later.”

Jaskier pouts. “But you won’t know where I’ll be.”

“But you don’t wanna wait for me to get dressed, either, do you?”

Jaskier sighs, then rolls his eyes. “No, I suppose not.” He kisses Geralt again, softly this time. “Alright, fine, you and your perfect, very boring ass can stay in here while I go have fun, then.”

He makes a move to get up, but the tightening of Geralt’s hands around his hips stops him, and he cocks his head.

“Promise me one thing,” Geralt whispers to him, fear and worry rising again in his chest.

“Alright, love, anything.”

“No killing.”

Jaskier pouts, lets out a whiny noise. “Why not?”

“Because we just got here, and I would hate for us to have to leave already because you couldn’t keep your knife in your pants.”

Jaskier laughs, then pouts again. “Can’t I just stab them a little bit? Just a bit?”

Geralt mock-glares at him and Jaskier laughs again. “No, you can’t.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “But seriously, promise me you won’t kill anyone. Please.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, but nods anyways. “Alright, fine. No killing.” Geralt glares at him again. “Fine, I _promise._ There, all good?”

Geralt lets go of his hips. “All good,” he says, smiling when Jaskier leaps up, bounding for the door, quickly leaving with a: “See you tonight, love!”

He shakes his head, fondness blooming in his chest, as he stands up to take a shower.

\---

Night has started to fall already when Jaskier finally returns to the motel room. He gives Geralt a quick, tight-lipped smile, before hurrying to the bathroom.

Geralt frowns. He knows Jaskier by now, and this behaviour is not like him - at all. “Jaskier, what’s going on?”

Jaskier smiles, breathes out a quick huff of a laugh, as he continues to the bathroom. “Nothing, nothing, love. Just need a quick shower to wash this sweat and seawater off me.”

“Jaskier, I know you’re lying.”

“What? No, I’m not, I would _never.”_

_“Jaskier.”_

The younger man already has the doorknob to the bathroom in his hand, and Geralt knows that if he doesn’t stop him now, he’ll probably never find out what’s going on. “Stop right there, _boy.”_

Jaskier does stop, luckily, a small shiver running down his spine at the word. Though, he doesn’t turn to face Geralt.

“Turn around, boy.”

Jaskier does as he’s told, his gaze flitting around the room, looking at anything and everything but Geralt. He almost looks... scared, even, he notices, and worry and panic coil in his gut.

That’s when he sees the small, dark stain on the front of Jaskier’s shirt - dark brown, though he knows it must’ve been deep red not so long ago.

He sighs, anger and annoyance rising in him. “Speak, boy. What did you do?”

Jaskier fidgets with his own hands, gaze still not meeting Geralt’s. He mumbles something under his breath, red rising to his cheeks.

“What was that?”

“I, uh... I maybe sort of, uh... stabbed someone?” He does finally meet Geralt’s eyes, guilt and embarrassment in his own blue ones. “Sorry?”

Geralt sighs again, pinching the bridge of his nose. This is _exactly_ what they don’t need right now - extra attention drawn to them, the suspicions of the cops raised at what was probably a cold-hearted murder. But a murder nonetheless, he knows, because Jaskier doesn’t half-ass shit, especially murder. Hopefully that also means there are no witnesses.

“Why?” The question comes out flat in an effort to keep the annoyance and anger from his voice. “I told you not to. You _promised_ me you wouldn’t! And now you come in here and you tell me you _stabbed someone?_ Why’d you do that?” Despite his earlier resolve, he cannot keep the volume of his voice down, cannot keep his anger from shining through.

Jaskier flinches a bit, though there is defiance in his eyes. “He catcalled me!”

“So you _stabbed him?_ Please tell me you didn’t kill him in the middle of the street.”

“No! I... I may have given him a little wink, and beckoned for him to follow me, and I _may_ have led him into a shady alley, and I _may_ have stabbed him several times there. But I covered his mouth! And I barely got any blood on me!”

“Oh, yeah, that makes it _so much better,_ thank you for that, all is now forgiven.”

“Really?”

“No, of course not!” He takes a few deep breaths, steadying himself. Finally, he looks up again, at Jaskier, who’s still standing in front of the bathroom door, hands fisting his own bloodied shirt. “Obviously, I can’t let you just get away with this, boy. You have to be punished.”

Another shiver runs through Jaskier’s body, and Geralt can practically see his eyes darken from where he’s still sitting on the bed. “Yes, sir,” Jaskier whispers.

“Take off your shirt. I don’t wanna have to look at that bloodstain another fucking second, you hear me?”

Jaskier obliges with a soft: “yes, sir.”

“Come here, boy.” He pats his lap, and Jaskier walks towards him, knees shaking, wiping his sweaty hands on his trousers. Speaking of, Geralt can already see the outline of Jaskier’s hardening cock through the fabric, and he feels a small rush of satisfaction at the knowledge his words alone already have such an effect on the younger man.

“No,” he says, when Jaskier moves to sit down in his lap. “On your stomach, boy.”

Jaskier exhales a shaky breath, nodding as he lays down on his stomach, across Geralt’s thighs, one hand holding onto the nightstand, another to Geralt’s thigh, his legs stretched out behind him, the tips of his toes barely touching the floor.

“Hmm,” he hums, as he hooks the fingers of one hand under Jaskier’s waistband, the other snaking through brown curls, pulling on them tightly, eliciting a small gasp from the younger man. “I’d almost tell you you’re a good boy, but if you were, we wouldn’t be here in the first place, now would we?”

Jaskier shakes his head as well as he can with Geralt holding on to his hair, whispering out a “no, sir”, breath catching in his lungs when Geralt’s yanks his shorts to his ankles in one movement.

He softly taps one of Jaskier’s ass cheeks, making him shiver in his lap. “How many do you think you deserve, boy?”

Jaskier stammers for a few seconds. “I- I don’t know, I, uh... I don’t know?” His voice is high, desperate, pleading, and Geralt almost feels ashamed at the fact that he can feel his own cock fattening in the confinements of his trousers. Almost.

He swats Jaskier’s ass again, eliciting a soft yelp from underneath his hands. “Answer me, boy. How many?”

“I, uh... fifteen?”

“Hmm,” he muses. “Twenty it is, then.”

It earns him a small sound of protest, and he tightens his hand in Jaskier’s hair, basking in the small hiss of pain. 

“Got a problem with that, boy?” He smiles softly when he can feel Jaskier’s already hard cock twitch against the side of his thigh, can feel the dampness of precome leaking onto the sheets and into the fabric of his trousers.

“No, sir,” Jaskier whispers, and Geralt nods, before letting go of his hair.

“Count for me, boy.”

Jaskier barely has time to choke out a “yes, sir”, before Geralt’s hand already lands on his left ass cheek, hard and fast and merciless. “One,” he whispers.

“Hmm. Good boy.”

He strikes again. And again, and again, and again. After five slaps, Jaskier is already a whimpering mess underneath him, the supple flesh of his ass tender, his creamy skin an angry red.

After ten slaps, Jaskier starts crying out after every strike, trying to move away from Geralt’s hand, though his other arm holds the younger man in place.

“Please,” Jaskier whimpers, squirming in Geralt’s lap, salty tears gathering in his eyes. “Please, enough.”

Geralt bunches the flesh of one cheek in his hand, kneeding it roughly, eliciting another whimper from the younger man. “This is your fault, boy. You promised not to murder, and you did it anyway. This is on you. Now, do you remember your word, boy?”

The word to end this all, the word to use if it gets too much or too painful. Jaskier nods, stifling a soft sob. “I remember, sir.”

“Alright, good boy.” The praise makes Jaskier shiver softly. “Keep counting.”

He lands the next slap slightly below Jaskier’s ass, making sure he hits skin that he hasn’t hit yet, that’s not as numb as the rest of his flesh - but it only earns him a soft whimper and a whispered “eleven”.

The four slaps after that don’t do much better, and Geralt knows that, by the time they reach fifteen, Jaskier has grown accustomed to the pain. But that’s not what he wanted - he wanted Jaskier to realize the full severity of his actions, wanted him to bear the full weight of his punishment.

“Bend your legs, boy,” he tells Jaskier, and though the younger man frowns in confusion, he obliges.

Geralt yanks his shorts from his ankles, telling him to lower his legs again with a soft push against his calves. Then, he kicks Jaskier’s legs open with his foot. “Got five more to go, boy.” And Jaskier shivers in anticipation, no doubt already suspecting where this is going. “Count for me,” he whispers, voice hoarse with want and need, as his own hard cock strains against the fabric of his jeans, only twitching more when he thinks about what’s to come.

He lands the next slap on Jaskier’s balls, and the younger man cries out in surprise and pain.

“ _Count,”_ Geralt hisses through clenched teeth, the friction of Jaskier squirming in his lap, his stomach brushing against Geralt’s cock over and over again almost overwhelming.

“ _Ah, fuck, ah, s- sixteen_.” Jaskier’s panting by now, ribcage heaving.

Another slap on Jaskier’s balls, this time harder, though he softly caresses them while he waits for the younger man to choke out a “seventeen”.

Eighteen and nineteen follow quickly after that, and he waits for a few seconds, grants his love some respite before number twenty. He lands the last one a little lower, striking both Jaskier’s balls and painfully hard cock.

Jaskier cries out again, though even louder this time, his whole body shuddering underneath Geralt’s hands, as he pants. Geralt frowns - he really hadn’t expected that much of a reaction, but it all suddenly makes sense when he feels warm wetness seeping into the side of his pants.

He feels his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, as he threads two fingers through the mess on his trousers and the sheets, humming out a soft “hmm” when they come back wet and sticky and white.

He looks to his left, as Jaskier hides his red face in the sheets, his neck and shoulders flushed beautifully.

“I didn’t give you permission to come,” Geralt says flatly.

Jaskier nods, turning his face to look up at him, eyes big and pleading and guilty. “I know. I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to.”

He sighs, all fight leaving him in one, big huff, as he softly pats the small of Jaskier’s back. “It’s alright. Just this once.”

Jaskier smiles up at him. “Thank you, sir.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Alright, alright, come on, up, dear.”

Jaskier pushes himself up, moving so he’s straddling Geralt’s lap, arms around his neck, foreheads pressed together. “I’m sorry, love.”

“You already said that, and I told you it’s fine.”

“No, I mean I’m sorry for... you know... stabbing that guy.”

Geralt sighs again, pulling Jaskier closer. “I know you are. It’s just... I worry. Every time you kill someone, the chances of us getting caught, getting separated, grow. I can’t let anything happen to you. That’s why I was so angry, I guess.”

Jaskier smiles down at him, pecking a small kiss to his cheek, to his nose, to the corner of his mouth, and finally to his lips. “I understand. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

Geralt lets out a quiet breath, his worry leaving him with the air. “Thank you, dear.”

He stands up, lifting Jaskier with ease, before turning around, lowering them both on the soft bed. It’s dark outside, already, and though he’s slept so long the previous night, he still feels tired.

Jaskier smiles at him again, all bright, blue eyes and rosy lips and brown curls and pure sunshine, as he softly traces Geralt’s nose, his cheekbones, the outline of his lips with one finger. “I love you, you know.”

Geralt smiles softly. “I know. I love you too.”

Jaskier bites his bottom lip, seemingly hesitant to say something, the steady course of his finger faltering.

“Come on,” Geralt whispers. “Spit it out.”

“Wanna get married?”

He breathes out a soft huff of laughter, before gently kissing Jaskier. “Yes, I wanna get married,” he whispers against his love’s lips, smiling when Jaskier’s face turns ever brighter, his grin ever wider.

“Alright, then. Guess we’re getting married.”

Geralt smiles again - or still. He’s not sure whether or not he stopped smiling in the first place. He supposes he hasn’t stopped since he and Jaskier ran away together, though, so he figures it doesn’t really matter now.

“Okay, love you,” he whispers, as his eyes drift closed. He’s never felt more content, more at peace, more in love, though his mind sure tries to, when Jaskier whispers an “I love you” back - the last thing he hears before he falls asleep.

\---

He wakes up in the morning to the sound of a gun being cocked, and he instinctively tightens his arm around Jaskier. Something feels wrong, something feels very wrong.

He figures out what it is when he opens his eyes, finding 5 men dressed in tactical gear surrounding their bed, finding himself staring down the barrels of 5 assault rifles.

“FBI,” one of them says, “you’re under arrest.”

* Fin *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *maniacal laughter* Yes! This is the end of this fic! Thank god!
> 
> Anyways go read All You Have Is Your Fire, or Beyond The Treeline, or The Wasteland, Baby series - all of which are a lot better than this fic.


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